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The Portable 


A rich, comprehensive selection 
from all his work, designed to trace 
the development of his thought. 

Edited with an interpretative 

introduction, chronology, notes, 

and bibliography by JOSEPH CAMPBELL 

Jung's text translated by R.F.C. HULL 

704 pages 



Born in New York in 1904, Joseph Campbell 
earned his B.A. and M.A. degrees at Colum- 
bia in 1925 and 1927. He went on to study 
medieval French and Sanskrit at the univei> 
sities of Paris and Munich, and it was in the 
latter city that he became acquainted with 
the work of Jung. Returning to the United 
States at the time of the great Depression, he 
visited California (where he met John Stein- 
beck and the biologist Ed Ricketts), taught 
at the Canterbury School, and, in 1934, 
joined the literature department at Sarah 
Lawrence College, a post he retained for 
many years. During the 1940s and '50s, he 
helped Swami Nikhilananda to translate the 
Upanishads and The Gospel of Sri Rama- 
krishna. Professor Campbell's numerous 
books include The Hero with a Thousand 
Faces; Myths to Live By; The Flight of the 
Wild Gander; a four-volume study, The 
Masks of God; and The Mythic Image. In 
addition to The Portable Jung, he has edited 
The Portable Arabian Nights. 

The Portable 

Edited, with an Introduction, by 


Translated by R. F. C. Hull 


Penguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, 

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First published in the United States of America 

by The Viking Press 1971 

Reprinted 1972 (twice), 1973 (twice), 1974 (twice), I975i 1976 

Published in Penguin Books 1976 

Reprinted 1977 

The Colta ted Works oj C. G. Jung, translated by R. F. C. Hull, pub- 
lished by Princeton University Press as Bollingen Series XX, is covered 
b> the following copyrights: volume 6 copyright © Princeton University 
Picsv, 1971. voilml 7 copyright 1953 by Bollingen Foundation, Inc, 
voi 1 mi 7, second edition, copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 
volume 8 copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc., i960, volume 

8, lecond edition, copyright Princeton University Press, 1969. volume 

9. Part I, copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1959. volume 9, 
Part I, second edition, copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1969. 
»OlUmi 9, Pan II, copyright © Bollingen Foundation Inc., 1959. 
volume 10 copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1964. volume 10, 
vecond edition, copyright © Princeton University Press, 1970. volume 
11 copyright » Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1958. volume ii, second 
edition, copyright © Princeton University Press, 1969. volume 12 
copyright < Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1953, 1968. volume 15 copy- 

C Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1966. volume 17 copyright 1954 
by Bollmgcn loundation, Inc. 

Copyright ©The Viking Press, Inc., 1971 
All rights reserved 


Jung, Carl Gusiav, 1875-1961. The portable Jung. 

Reprint of the 1971 cd. published by The Viking Press, New York, 

which was issued as no. 70 of the Viking portable library. 

Bibliography: p. 

x. Psychoanalysis. I. Campbell, Joseph, 1904— II. Title. 

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Editor's Introduction vii 

Chronology xxxiii 


i f The Stages of Life 3 

2. The Structure of the Psyche 23 

3. Instinct and the Unconscious 47 

4. The Concept of the Collective Unconscious 59 

5. The Relations Between the Ego and the 
Unconscious 70 

6. Aion: Phenomenology of the Self 
(The Ego, the Shadow, the Syzygy: 
Anima/Animus) 139 

7. Marriage as a Psychological Relationship 163 

8. Psychological Types 178 


9. The Transcendent Function 273 

10. On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to 
Poetry 301 

11. Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to 
Alchemy 323 

12. The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man 456 

13. The Difference Between Eastern and Western 
Thinking 480 


14. On Synchronicity 505 

15. Answer to Job 519 

Appendix 651 

Editor's Introduction 

The first task, on approaching such a mobile model of the 
living psyche as Carl G. Jung's, must be to become familiar 
as quickly as possible with its variables. To this end I 
have opened this anthology with papers introducing the 
elementary terms and themes of Jung's psychology. Once 
acquainted with these, the reader will be prepared to 
range at will through The Collected Works; and my 
second aim, consequently, has been to provide a usable 
guide to that treasury of learning. For Jung was not only 
a medical man but a scholar in the grand style, whose 
researches, particularly in comparative mythology, al- 
chemy, and the psychology of religion, have inspired and 
augmented the findings of an astonishing number of the 
leading creative scholars of our time. Evidence of this will 
be found in the forty-odd volumes already published of 
the continuing Eranos-Jahrbuch series, 1 where stand the 

1 Eranos-Jahrbitcher (Zurich: Rhein-Vcrlag, 1933 ). Six vol- 
umes of selected papers have been published in English, under my 
editorship, translated by Ralph Manheim, Papers from the Eranos 
Yearbooks, Bollingen Series XXX (New York: Pantheon Books, 
1954, 1955, 1957, i960, 1964, 1969). 

viii ; Editor's Introduction 

contributions of some two hundred major scholars, render- 
ing matters of their special fields in the light of — and as 
relevant to — the culture-historical studies of Carl G. Jung, 
My final aim, accordingly, has been to provide such a 
primer and handbook to Jung's writings that if a reader 
will proceed faithfully from the first page to the last, he 
will emerge not only with a substantial understanding of 
Analytical Psychology, but also with a new realization 
of the relevance of the mythic lore of all peoples to his 
own psychological opus magnum of Individuation. 

J. Childhood and Student Years {1875-1900) 

Carl Gustav Jung was born July 26, 1875, in Kesswil, 
Switzerland, on Lake Constance. His paternal grandfather, 
after whom he was named, had moved from Germany in 
1822, when Alexander von Humboldt obtained an appoint- 
ment for him as professor of surgery at the University of 
Basel. His father, Johann Paul Achilles Jung (1842- 
1896), was a clergyman, and his mother, Emilie Preiswerk 
Jung (1848-1923), was the daughter of a long-established 
Basel family. When the boy was four, his parents moved 
to Klein-Huningen, near Basel, and it was there his educa- 
tion began. His father taught him Latin, and his mother, 
as he tells in a volume of old-age reminiscences, Memories, 
Dreams, Reflections, read to him of exotic religions from 
an illustrated children's book, to which he constantly re- 
turned to view with fascination its pictures of Hindu gods. 

During early youth, Jung thought of archaeology as 
a career. Theology, too, interested him, though not in his 
father's sense; for the concept of Christ's life as the sole 
decisive feature in the drama of God and man he regarded 
as belying Christ's own teaching that the Holy Ghost 
would take his place among men after his death. He 
regarded Jesus as a man; hence, either fallible or a mere 
mouthpiece of the Holy Ghost, who, in turn, was "a mani- 
festation of the inconceivable God." 

Editor's Introduction : ix 

One day, in the library of a college classmate's father, 
the questing youth chanced on a small book on spiritualistic 
phenomena that immediately caught and absorbed him; 
for the phenomena described were like those of stories 
he had been hearing in the Swiss countryside since child- 
hood. Furthermore, he knew that similar tales were re- 
ported from all parts of the world. They could not be the 
products of religious superstition, since religious teachings 
differ and these accounts were alike. They must be con- 
nected, he thought, with the objective behavior of the 
psyche. Interest ignited, he read jravenously; but among 
his friends he encountered only resistance to the subject, a 
curious, hard resistance that amazed him. 

"I had the feeling," he declares, "that I had pushed to 
the brink of the world; what was of burning interest to me 
was null and void for others, and even a cause of dread. 
Dread of what? I could find no explanation for this. 
After all, there was nothing preposterous and world-shaking 
in the idea that there might be events which overstepped 
the limited categories of space, time, and causality. Animals 
were known to sense beforehand storms and earthquakes. 
There were dreams which foresaw the death of certain 
persons, clocks which stopped at the moment of death, 
glasses which shattered at the critical moment. All these 
things had been taken for granted in the world of my 
childhood. And now I was apparently the only person 
who had ever heard of them. In all earnestness I asked 
myself what kind of world I had stumbled into. Plainly 
the urban world knew nothing about the country world, 
the real world of mountains, woods, and rivers, of animals 
and 'God's thoughts' (plants and crystals). I found this 
explanation comforting. At all events, it bolstered my 

What decided this young scholar of philosophical bent 
to enter medicine has not, as far as I know, been told. It 
was possibly the imposing model of his very distinguished 
grandfather of Humboldt's time. But he has himself de- 
scribed the strange events that turned him, in the last 

x : Editor's Introduction 

months of his medical schooling, from medicine and sur- 
gery to psychiatry. 

While following his required courses, he had been avidly 
reading, on Sundays, in Kant and Goethe, Hartmann, 
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche; but again had found, when 
he thought to talk of such authors to his friends, that no 
one wanted to hear of them. All his friends wanted were 
facts, and all he had for them was talk — until, one day, 
there came to him something as solid and cold as steel. 

He was in his room, studying, with the door half open 
to the dining room, where his widowed mother was knitting 
by the window, when a loud report sounded, like a pistol 
shot, and the circular walnut table beside her had split 
from the rim to beyond the center — a table of solid walnut, 
dried and seasoned for some seventy years. Two weeks 
later, the young medical student, returning home at evening, 
found his mother, his fourteen-year-old sister, and the 
maid in high agitation. About an hour earlier, another 
deafening crack had come from the neighborhood of a 
heavy nineteenth-century sideboard, which the women had 
then examined without finding any sign. Nearby, in the 
cupboard containing the breadbasket, however, Jung dis- 
covered the breadknife with its steel blade broken to 
pieces: in one corner of the basket, its handle; in each 
of the others, a fraction of the blade. To the end of his 
life Jung preserved the fragments of that concrete fact. 

A few weeks later he learned of certain relatives engaged 
in table-turning, who had a medium, a young girl of fifteen 
and a half, who produced somnambulistic states and 
spiritualistic phenomena. Invited to participate, Jung im- 
mediately conjectured that the manifestations in his moth- 
er's house might be connected with that medium. He 
joined the sessions and, for the next two years, meticulously 
took notes, until, in the end, the medium, feeling her 
powers failing, began to cheat, and Jung departed. 

Meanwhile, he was still at medical school, and in due 
season the time arrived for the state examination. His 
professor in psychology had been "not exactly," in his 

Editor's Introduction : xi 

judgment, "stimulating." Moreover, in the medical world 
of that time, psychiatry was held in contempt. So in pre- 
paring himself he had reserved for the last his psychiatric 
textbook, Krafft-Ebing's Lehrbuch der Psychiatrie, which 
he opened with the unpromising thought, "Well, now let's 
see what a psychiatrist has to say for himself." 

Beginning with the preface, he read: "It is probably due 
to the peculiarity of the subject and its incomplete state 
of development that psychiatric textbooks are stamped 
with a more or less subjective character." A few lines 
further on, Krafft-Ebing termed psychoses "diseases of the 
personality," and the reader's heart began suddenly to 
pound. He had to stand and draw a deep breath. His 
excitement was intense; for, as he tells, "it had become 
clear to me in a flash of illumination, that for me the only 
possible goal was psychiatry." Here, and here alone, was 
the empirical field common to spiritual and biological facts. 

2. The Scholar Physician: First Period (i 900-1 907) 

Collected Works: Volume 1. Psychiatric Studies 

Volume 2. Experimental Researches 

December 10, 1900, the twenty-five-year-old Carl Jung 
assumed his post as First Assistant Physician at the Burg- 
holzli Psychiatric Clinic in Zurich, under Eugen Bleuler, 
whom he recognized gratefully all his life as the first of 
his only two teachers; Pierre Janet, at the Salpetriere in 
Paris, with whom he studied for a term in 1902, being 
the second. Under Bleuler he completed in 1902 his doc- 
toral dissertation, "On the Psychology and Pathology of 
So-Called Occult Phenomena" (Collected Works, Vol. 1), 
analyzing the medium and seances of his two-year adven- 
ture in the occult, with a review of earlier published 
studies of somnambulism, hystero-epilepsy, amnesia, and 

xii : Editor's Introduction 

other related twilight states. And what is here remarkable 
is that already in this earliest work there appear at least 
five major themes that were to recur as leitmotifs through 
all of Jung's later thinking. 

The first is of the autonomy of unconscious psychic 
contents. During states of semi-somnambulism or preoccu- 
pation, such autonomous elements may assume control, 
producing "automatisms" of various sorts: hallucinatory 
visions, sensations, or voices (which may be interpreted as 
of spirits), automatic movements, writings, etc. If the com- 
position of such an autonomous complex becomes, in the 
course of time, reinforced, a second, "unconscious" per- 
sonality can be built up, which can then, under releasing 
conditions, take over. In the case of his medium, Jung was 
able to identify in her recent experiences the sources of 
many of her fantasies; noting that even normally in 
adolescence, which is when the future ego-complex is being 
formed, analogous splittings occur. 

And this enabled him to put forward a second idea 
destined to remain fundamental in his thinking, namely, of 
such a psychological disturbance, as having teleological 
significance, i.e. as transitional under crisis, protective yet 
pointing forward, giving the individual, who would other- 
wise inevitably succumb to threatening circumstance, "the 
means of victory." 

A third and a fourth point demonstrated in this paper 
were not only that the unconscious is a carrier of memories 
lost to consciousness, but also that it is an intuiting agent 
of a receptivity "far exceeding that of the conscious mind"; 
to which latter point Jung quoted the French psychiatrist 
Alfred Binet, to the effect that, according to his calcula- 
tions, "the unconscious sensibility of an hysterical patient 
is at certain moments fifty times more acute than that of a 
normal person." 

Finally, Jung remarked in this first paper of his long 
career that a curious mythological concept of the cosmos 
which the young medium one day brought forth with 
joyful face as having been "revealed" to her by the spirits, 

Editor's Introduction : xiii 

resembled other occult "systems" scattered about in works 
to which this girl would have had no access. Constructed 
of fragmentary components received from various iden- 
tifiable sources, her system had been put together below 
or beyond the field of her conscious mind and presented 
to her as an image already formed. Jung's conclusion, to 
be developed in his later writings, was that, inherent in 
the human psyche, there is a patterning force, which may, 
at various times and in places out of touch with each other, 
spontaneously put forth similar constellations of fantasy; 
so that, as he states in a later volume: "One could almost 
say that if all the world's traditions were cut off at a single 
blow, the whole mythology and the whole history of 
religion would start all over again with the next generation." 

In 1903 this brilliant youth set up in the Burgholzli 
Clinic a laboratory for experimental psychopathology, 
where, with a number of students and with Dr. Franz 
Riklin as collaborator, he undertook to investigate psychic 
reactions by means of association tests. The basic concept 
supporting this method was of the "feeling tone" (Bleuler's 
term: "an affective state accompanied by somatic inner- 
vations") as a binding force by which constellations of 
ideas are held together, whether in the conscious or in the 
unconscious mind, the conscious ego itself and the whole 
mass of ideas pertaining to it being but one such "feeling- 
toned complex." 

"The ego," Jung states in the culminating paper of this 
period, a work on "The Psychology of Dementia Praecox" 
{Collected Works, Vol. 3), which he later sent to Freud, 
"is the psychological expression of the firmly associated 
combinations of all body sensations. One's own per- 
sonality is therefore the firmest and strongest complex, 
and (good health permitting) it weathers all psychological 
storms." However: "Reality sees to it that the peaceful 
cycle of egocentric ideas is constantly interrupted by ideas 
with a strong feeling-tone, that is, by affects. A situation 
threatening danger pushes aside the tranquil play of ideas 
and puts in their place a complex of other ideas with a 

xiv : Editor's Introduction 

very strong feeling-tone. The new complex then crowds 
everything else into the background. For the time being it 
is the most distinct because it totally inhibits all other 
ideas." It was by touching and activating a subject's feeling- 
toned associations that the word test exposed the hidden 
"facts" of his life. And it was in response to Jung's early 
publications on this topic that he acquired his first pro- 
fessional reputation. 

Jung in 1903 had married Emma Rauschenbach, who 
was to become the mother of four daughters and a son, 
and to remain his close collaborator until the day of her 
death in 1955. Two years after the marriage he became 
Senior Physician at the clinic and was appointed Lecturer 
in Psychiatry at the University of Zurich, where he dealt 
chiefly with hypnosis and researches in somnambulism, 
automatism, hysteria, etc. It was largely as the result of a 
little miracle that occurred in this lecture class that his 
private practice suddenly acquired dimension. 

A middle-aged woman on crutches came into the room 
one day, led by a maid. She had for seventeen years been 
suffering a painful paralysis of the left leg; and when he 
had placed her in a comfortable chair, bidding her tell her 
story, she went on at such interminable length that he had 
finally to interrupt. ''Well now," he said, "we have no more 
time for so much talk. I am now going to hypnotize you." 
Whereupon she closed her eyes and fell into a profound 
trance without any hypnosis at all, continuing, meanwhile, 
her talking, relating the most remarkable dreams. The 
situation for the baffled young instructor,* before his twenty 
students, was becoming increasingly uncomfortable; and 
when he tried to wake her, without success, he became 
alarmed. It took some ten minutes to bring her to, and 
when she woke, she was giddy and confused. He said 
to her, "I am the doctor; everything is all right." At which 
she cried out, "But I am cured!" threw away her crutches, 
and was able to walk. Flushed with embarrassment, Jung 
said to the students, "Now you've seen what can be done 
with hypnosis!" whereas, in fact, he had not the slightest 

Editor's Introduction : xv 

idea what had happened. The woman departed in the best 
of spirits to proclaim her cure, and himself as a wizard, 
far and wide. 

3. The Scholar Physician: Second Period (1907-1912) 

Collected Works: 

Volume 3. The Psychogeneses of Mental Disease 

Volume 4. Freud and Psychoanalysis (1906-12/ 

Volume 5. Symbols of Transformation (I. 1911; 

II. 1912/1952) 
Also, one item in Vol. 17 (see below, p. 659). 

Jung's acquaintance with the writings of Freud com- 
menced in 1900, the year of publication of The Interpreta- 
tion of Dreams, which he read at Bleuler's suggestion but 
was not yet prepared to appreciate. Three years later, 
returning to the book, he realized that it offered the best 
explanation he had found of the mechanism of the repres- 
sions observed in his word-association experiments. He 
could not, however, accept Freud's identification of the 
content of repression as invariably a sexual trauma, since 
from his own practice he was familiar with cases in which 
(to quote his words) "the question of sexuality played a 
subordinate part, other factors standing in the foreground — 
for example, the problem of social adaptation, of oppres- 
sion by tragic circumstances of life, prestige considerations, 
and so on." 

Jung opened an exchange with Freud by sending him 
in 1906 a collection of his early papers entitled Studies 
in Word Association r to which Freud graciously re- 

a These were: "The Association of Normal Subjects** (1904); 
"Reaction-Time in Association Experiments" (1905); "Experimen- 
tal Observations on Memory" (1905); and "Psychoanalysis and 
Association Experiments" (1905). All are assigned to Collected 
Works, Vol. 2, "Experimental Researches." 

xvi : Editor's Introduction 

sponded; and Jung went to visit him in Vienna. They met 
at one in the afternoon and talked for thirteen hours, 
almost without let. 

The next year Jung sent his monograph on "The Psy- 
chology of Dementia Praecox" and again was invited to 
Vienna, but with his wife this time, and affairs took 
another turn. 

"When I arrived in Vienna with my young and happy 
wife," Jung told a visitor, Dr. John M. Billinsky, 3 in 
1957, "Freud came to see us at the hotel and brought 
some flowers for my wife. He was trying to be very con- 
siderate and at one point said to me, 'I am sorry that I 
can give you no real hospitality. I have nothing at home 
but an elderly wife.' When my wife heard him say that, 
she looked perplexed and embarrassed. At Freud's home 
that evening, during dinner, I tried to talk to Freud and 
his wife about psychoanalysis and Freud's activities, but I 
soon discovered that Mrs. Freud knew absolutely nothing 
about what Freud was doing. It was very obvious that 
there was a very superficial relationship between Freud 
and his wife. 

"Soon I met Freud's wife's younger sister. She was very 
good-looking, and she not only knew enough about psy- 
choanalysis but also about everything Freud was doing. 
When, a few days later, I was visiting Freud's laboratory, 
his sister-in-law asked me if she could talk with me. She 
was very much bothered by her relationship with Freud 
and felt guilty about it. From her I learned that Freud 
was in love with her and that their friendship was indeed 
very intimate. It was a shocking discovery to me, and even 
now 1 recall the agony I felt at the time." 

The following year, 1908, Jung attended in Vienna the 
First International Congress of Psycho-Analysis; and it 

'Guiles Professor of Psychology and Clinical Studies at Andover 
Newton Theological School, Newton Center, Mass. His article, "Jung 
and Freud," from which 1 quote, appeared in the Andover Newton 
Quarterly, Vol. 10, No. 2 (November 1969), pp. 39-43. 

Editor's Introduction : xvii 

was there that he met the greater part of that distinguished 
company which, in the next years, was to make the psy- 
choanalytic movement known to the world. The next 
spring, 1909, found Jung once again in Vienna, and on 
this occasion Freud — his elder by nineteen years — confided 
to him kindly that he was adopting him "as an eldest son, 
anointing him as successor and crown prince." However, 
when the anointed later asked what his adopting elder's 
views might be on precognition and parapsychology, Freud 
replied abruptly: Sheer nonsense! — "and in terms," states 
Jung, "of so shallow a positivism that I had difficulty in 
checking the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue." 

"I had a curious sensation," Jung continues in his 
account of this first real crisis in their friendship. "It was 
as if my diaphragm were made of iron and were becoming 
red-hot — a glowing vault. And at that moment there was 
such a loud report in the bookcase, which stood right next 
to us, that we started up in alarm, fearing the thing was 
going to topple over on us. I said to Freud: There, that 
is an example of a so-called catalytic exteriorization phe- 

" 'Oh come!' he exclaimed. That is sheer bosh.' 

" 'It is not,' I replied. 'You are mistaken, Herr Pro- 
fessor. And to prove my point I now predict that in a 
moment there will be another such loud report!' Sure 
enough, no sooner had I said the words than the same 
detonation went off in the bookcase. . . . Freud only 
stared aghast at me. I do not know what was in his mind, 
or what his look meant. In any case, this incident aroused 
his mistrust of me, and I had the feeling that I had done 
something against him." 4 

It is hardly surprising, after such a display of shamanism 
on the part of his newly adopted "son," that the "father" 

4 C. G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, recorded and edited 
by Aniela JafTe, translated by Richard and Clara Winston (New 
York: Pantheon Books, 1963), pp. 155-56; see Freud's letter of 
attempted interpretation, ibid., pp. 361-63. 

xviii ; Editor's Introduction 

(with his idee fixe about Oedipus) should, on their next 
occasion, have suffered a hysterical crisis. This occurred 
that fall, in Bremen, where they had met to embark for 
America, invited, both, to Clark University to receive 
honorary degrees. Jung had been reading of the peat-bog 
corpses brought to light in Denmark: bodies from the 
Iron Age, perfectly preserved, which he had hoped to see 
while in the North. And when he began talking of these, 
there was something about his persistence that began to get 
on Freud's nerves. Several times Freud asked why he was 
so concerned about those corpses; and when, at dinner, 
Jung went on, Freud suddenly fainted — having conceived 
the idea, as he later explained, that Jung had death wishes 
against him. 

"From the very beginning of our trip," Jung confided 
to Dr. Billinsky, fifty years later, "we started to analyze 
each other's dreams. Freud had some dreams that bothered 
him very much. The dreams were about the triangle — 
Freud, his wife, and wife's younger sister. Freud had no 
idea that I knew about the triangle and his intimate rela- 
tionship with his sister-in-law. And so, when Freud told 
me about the dream in which his wife and her sister played 
important parts, I asked him to tell me some of his 
personal associations with the dream. He looked at me 
with bitterness and said, 'I could tell you more, but I cannot 
risk my authority.' That, of course, finished my attempt 
to deal with his dreams. ... If Freud had tried to under- 
stand consciously the triangle, he would have been much, 
much better off." 

The next traumatic event occurred in 19 10, the year of 
the Second Congress of the Association of Psycho-Analysis, 
where Freud proposed, and even insisted against organized 
opposition, that Jung should be appointed Permanent 
President. "My dear Jung," he urged on this occasion, as 
Jung tells, "promise me never to abandon the sexual theory. 
That is the most essential thing of all. You see, we must 
make a dogma of it, an unshakable bulwark." He said this 

Editor's Introduction : xix 

with great emotion, in the tone (states Jung) of a father 
saying, "And promise me this one thing, my dear son: 
that you will go to church every Sunday." In some aston- 
ishment Jung asked him, "A bulwark — against what?" To 
which he replied, "Against the black tide of mud" — and 
here he hesitated for a moment, then added — "of oc- 

"First of all," comments Jung on this episode, "it was 
the words 'bulwark' and 'dogma' that alarmed me; for a 
dogma, that is to say, an undisputable confession of faith, 
is set up only when the aim is to suppress doubts once 
and for all. But that no longer has anything to do with 
scientific judgment; only with a personal power drive. 

"This was the thing that struck at the heart of our 
friendship. I knew that I would never be able to accept 
such an attitude. What Freud seemed to mean by 'oc- 
cultism' was virtually everything that philosophy and re- 
ligion, including the rising contemporary science of para- 
psychology, had learned about the psyche. To me the 
sexual theory was just as occult, that is to say, just as un- 
proven a hypothesis, as many other speculative views. As 
I saw it, a scientific truth was a hypothesis that might be 
adequate for the moment but was not to be preserved as 
an article of faith for all time." 

The incompatibility of the two minds was clear; yet they 
contrived to work together until the next congress, in 19 12, 
in Munich, where Freud was again overwhelmed by his 
oedipal myth. Someone had turned the talk to Ikhnaton, 
suggesting that because of a negative attitude toward his 
father he had destroyed his father's cartouches on the 
steles, and that in back of his creation of a monotheistic 
religion there lay, therefore, a father complex. Jung, irri- 
tated by such talk, responded that Ikhnaton had held his 
father's memory in honor and that what his zeal had 
been directed against was the name of the god Amon: 
other pharaohs had replaced their fathers' names with 
their own, feeling they had a right to do so as incarnations 

xx : Editor s Introduction 

of the same god; yet they had not inaugurated a new 
religion. ... On hearing which words, Freud slid off his 
chair in a faint. 

Many have held that the break in the friendship of these 

two was caused by Jung's publication of his altogether 

non-Freudian work, Symbols of Transformation {Collected 

Works, Vol. 5; Part I, 1911; Part II, 1912). However, 

this was not quite Jung's own view, although the book 

certainly played a part. "The only thing he saw in my 

work," Jung said in his talk with Dr. Billinsky, "was 

'resistance to the father' — my wish to destroy the father. 

When I tried to point out to him my reasoning about the 

libido, his attitude toward me was one of bitterness and 

rejection." More deeply, however, as Jung went on to 

explain: "It was my knowledge of Freud's triangle that 

became a very important factor in my break with Freud. 

And then," he continued, "I could not accept Freud's 

placing authority above truth." 

Jung's approach to the writing of his decisive — and 
divisive — work, Symbols of Transformation , commenced 
in 1909, the year of that trip to America. He had just 
begun his study of mythology and in the course of the 
readings came across Friedrich Creuzer's Symbolik und 
Mythologie der alten Volker (1810-1823), which, as he 
declares, "fired" him. He worked like mad through a moun- 
tain of mythological material, continued through the Gnos- 
tic writers, and ended in total confusion; then chanced 
on a scries of fantasies of a certain Miss Miller of New 
York, published in the Archives de Psychologic by his 
revered friend Theodore Flournoy. He was immediately 
struck by the mythological character of the fantasies and 
found that they operated as a catalyst on the stored-up 
ideas within him. He commenced writing, and, as he told 
in later years of the composition of this pivotal work of 
his career: "It was the explosion of all those psychic 
contents which could find no room, no breathing space, 
in the constricting atmosphere of Freudian psychology 

Editor's Introduction : xxi 

and its narrow outlook." "It was written at top speed, amid 
the rush and press of my medical practice, without regard 
to time or method. I had to fling my material hastily to- 
gether, just as I found it. There was no opportunity to let 
my thoughts mature. The whole thing came upon me like a 
landslide that cannot be stopped." Egyptian, Babylonian, 
Hindu, Classical and Gnostic, Germanic and American 
Indian materials came clustering about the fantasies of a 
modern American woman on the brink of a schizophrenic 
breakdown. And Jung's experience in the course of this 
labor transformed his entire point of view with respect to 
the task of interpreting psychological symbols. 

"Hardly had I finished the manuscript," he states, "when 
it struck me what it means to live with a myth, and what 
it means to live without one. Myth, says a Church Father, 
is 'what is believed always, everywhere, by everybody'; 
hence the man who thinks he can live without myth, or 
outside it, is an exception. He is like one uprooted, having 
no true link either with the past, or with the ancestral life 
which continues within him, or yet with contemporary 
human society. This plaything of his reason never grips 
his vitals. It may occasionally be heavy on his stomach, for 
that organ is apt to reject the products of reason as in- 
digestible. The psyche is not of today; its ancestry goes 
back many millions of years. Individual consciousness is 
only the flower and the fruit of a season, sprung from the 
perennial rhizome beneath the earth; and it would find 
itself in better accord with the truth if it took the existence 
of the rhizome into its calculations. For the root matter 
is the mother of all things." 

It was this radical shift of ground from a subjective 
and personal istic, essentially biographical approach to the 
reading of the symbolism of the psyche, to a larger, culture- 
historical, mythological orientation, that then became the 
characteristic of Jung's psychology. He asked himself, 
"What is the myth you are living?" and found that he did 
not know. "So, in the most natural way, I took it upon 

xxii : Editor's Introduction 

myself to get to know 'my' myth, and I regarded this as 
the task of tasks; for — so I told myself — how could I, 
when treating my patients, make due allowance for the 
personal factor, for my personal equation, which is yet so 
necessary for a knowledge of the other person, if I was 
unconscious of it? I simply had to know what unconscious 
or preconscious myth was forming me, from what rhizome 
I sprang. This resolve led me to devote many years of my 
life to investigating the subjective contents which are the 
products of unconscious processes, and to work out meth- 
ods which would enable us, or at any rate help us, to 
explore the manifestations of the unconscious." 

Briefly summarized, the essential realizations of this 
pivotal work of Jung's career were, first, that since the 
archetypes or norms of myth are common to the human 
species, they are inherently expressive neither of local 
social circumstance nor of any individual's singular ex- 
perience, but of common human needs, instincts, and po- 
tentials; second, that in the traditions of any specific folk, 
local circumstance will have provided the imagery through 
which the archetypal themes are displayed in the supporting 
myths of the culture; third, that if the manner of life and 
thought of an individual so departs from the norms of the 
species that a pathological state of imbalance ensues, of 
neurosis or psychosis, dreams and fantasies analogous to 
fragmented myths will appear; and fourth, that such dreams 
are best interpreted, not by reference backward to repressed 
infantile memories (reduction to autobiography), but by 
comparison outward with the analogous mythic forms 
(amplification to mythology), so that the disturbed in- 
dividual may learn to see himself depersonalized in the 
mirror of the human spirit and discover by analogy the 
way to his own larger fulfillment. Dreams, in Jung's view, 
are the natural reaction of the self-regulating psychic 
system and, as such, point forward to a higher, potential 
health, not simply backward to past crises. The posture of 
the unconscious is compensatory to consciousness, and its 

Editor's Introduction : xxiii 

productions, dreams, and fantasies, consequently, are not 
only corrective but also prospective, giving clues, if prop- 
erly read, to those functions and archetypes of the psyche 
pressing, at the moment, for recognition. 

4. The Scholar Physician: Master Period (1912-1946) 

Collected Works: 

Volume 6. Psychological Types (1921) 

Volume 7. Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

Volume 8. The Structure and Dynamics of the 
Psyche (19 16-45/1947-52) 

Volume 9.L The Archetypes and the Collective Un- 
conscious (1934-45/1948-55) 

Volume 10. Civilization in Transition (1918-46/ 

Volume 11. Psychology and Religion: West and East 

Volume 12. Psychology and Alchemy (1936-44) 
Volume 13. Alchemical Studies (1929-45/1948-54) 
Volume 15. The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

Volume 16. The Practice of .Psychotherapy (1921- 

Volume 17. The Development of Personality (1910/ 


The years from the opening of World War I to the close 
of World War II were the prime of Jung s maturity — and, 
as the reader possibly has noted, all but three of the papers 
of this Portable are from the writings of those years. The 
period began, however, with a season of profound dis- 
orientation. Even before the break with Freud, Jung's 
readings in mythology had turned his center of concern 
from the daylight world of time, space, and personalities 

xxiv : Editor's Introduction 

to a timeless eviternity of satyrs, nymphs, centaurs, and 
dragons to be slain. In 1909 he resigned his post at the 
Burgholzli Clinic; largely, as he tells, because he was over 
his head in work, having so large a private practice he 
could no longer keep up with his tasks. Then, when he 
had renounced Freud's dogma, the whole psychoanalytic 
community turned against him, launching even a paranoiac 
campaign of character assassination. Cut off in these sev- 
eral ways from all his earlier professional associates and 
even many of his former friends, he was left to wallow in 
a mercurial sea of fantasies and mythologies, his patients' 
dreams and his own. And, as he tells, in this condition of 
uncertainty he decided that in his work with patients he 
should not bring theoretical premises to bear, but only wait 
and see what they would tell of their own accord. They 
spontaneously recounted dreams, and he would ask, sim- 
ply, "What occurs to you in connection with that?" or 
"How do you mean that, where does it come from, what 
do you think about it?" — leaving everything open to 
chance. In his own fantasying he was being reminded, 
meanwhile, that in childhood he had enjoyed building- 
blocks and had gone on to constructing little towns and 
castles of stones and mud: accordingly, he decided to try 
going back to that childhood game; and what he presently 
found was that it was releasing in him streams of fantasy, 
which he soon began to record. Next he began embellish- 
ing his chronicle of these fantasies with ornamental de- 
signs, which soon led to larger pictorial figurations,' which, 
for a time, he was led to believe might be "Art," but then 
realized were not. They were X-rays of his spiritual state. 
Toward the autumn of 19 13, Jung was overcome and 
deeply troubled by a series of appalling visions of the 
whole of Europe drowning in blood. The World War broke 
out the following August: and it was as though a general 
schizophrenic eruption of autonomous feeling-toned com- 
plexes had shattered forever the rationalized surface of 
Occidental thought and civilization. On the one remaining 

Editor's Introduction : xxv 

island of peace, Jung, like a number of others in those 
years, set himself the task of exploring deeply the spiritual 
history of European man, in order to identify, and if pos- 
sible transcend, the compulsions of irrational self-destruc- 
tion. His fantasies and dreams, meanwhile, were revealing 
to him the same archetypes from within that he had al- 
ready come to know as of world mythology, and his 
ornamental designs were developing into mandalas, magic 
circles, "cryptograms concerning the state of the self," 
such as in the Orient had been used for centuries as sup- 
ports for meditation. "In what myth," he was asking, "does 
man live nowadays? Or do we no longer have any myth?" 

It is in point to remark that James Joyce, during those 
years, was also in Zurich, composing Ulysses; Lenin, too, 
was there, incubating world revolution; Hugo Ball, Richard 
Huelsenbeck, Hans Arp, and Tristan Tzara, likewise, in- 
venting Dada as a protest against rationalized organization; 
while in Germany Thomas Mann was at work on the ma- 
terials of The Magic Mountain, and Oswald Spengler was 
revising and augmenting his prophetic Decline of the West. 
The fruit of Jung's thinking appeared in 192 1 in the monu- 
mental tome (now Volume 6 of The Collected Works), 
Psychological Types, or The Psychology of Individuation. 

This was a work of more than 700 pages, the first 470 
dealing with an astounding range of philosophical specula- 
tions from India, China and Japan, Classical antiquity, 
Gnosticism and the Early Fathers, the Middle Ages, Refor- 
mation, Renaissance, Baroque and Enlightenment, Kant, 
Goethe, Schiller, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Wagner, Nietzsche, 
and assorted moderns: all concerned with the single theme 
of psychological types. And in the last 240 pages Jung's 
own formulation appears (in the present volume, Selection 
8), along with a glossary of basic Jungian terms and a con- 
clusion discussing the relevance of a recognition of psy- 
chological differences to an appreciation of the relativity 
of all so-called "truths" and "facts" to the organs of their 

xxvi : Editor's Introduction 

Jung assigns the leading part in the differentiation of 
types to what he terms the "Four Functions of Conscious- 
ness"; noticing that whereas one person may favor thought 
as a guide to judgment, another will follow feeling; and 
whereas one will tend to experience both the world and 
his friends through impressions made directly on his senses, 
another will be given, rather, to intuiting potentialities, 
hidden relationships, intentions, and possible sources. Sen- 
sation and Intuition are the two functions, according to 
this view, by which "facts" and the "fact world" are ap- 
prehended; Feeling and Thinking, those of judging and 
evaluating. But as Jung observes and shows — and here is 
the crux of his argument — only one of these four functions 
takes the lead in the governance of a person's life, and it 
is seconded, normally, by only one (not both) from the 
other duad; as, for example, Thinking supported by Sen- 
sation, or Sensation supported by Thinking: both of which 
combinations (characteristic of modern Western man) 
leave Feeling and Intuition disregarded, undeveloped, or 
even repressed and, consequently, in the unconscious, sus- 
ceptible to activation and outburst as autonomous com- 
plexes, either in the way of demoniacal seizures, or, more 
mildly, uncontrollable moods. 

Jung names such a turnover, such a transfer of leader- 
ship from conscious to unconscious factors, enantiodromia, 
a "running the other way," which is a term borrowed from 
Heraclitus, who taught that everything in time turns into 
its opposite. "Out of life," Heraclitus wrote, "comes death 
and out of death life, out of the young the old, and out 
of the old the young, out of waking sleep and out of sleep 
waking, the stream of creation and dissolution never 
stops." The idea is fundamental to Jung's psychology, and 
applies, furthermore, to all pairs-of-opposites: interchanges 
not only of the four functions but also of those two con- 
trary dispositions of psychic energy that Jung has termed 
Extraversion and Introversion. 

Jung recalls in his autobiographical volume, Memories, 

Editor's Introduction : xxvii 

Dreams, Reflections, that even while associated with the 
psychoanalytic movement he had remarked that, where 
Freud named sexuality as the controlling psychological 
force, Alfred Adler (who soon left the movement to de- 
velop in his own direction) put the Will to Power; and 
each was such a monotheist that he could brook no con- 
tradiction. Jung, on the other hand, had been a polytheist 
all his life; that is to say, had always known that the ulti- 
mate "One" which cannot be named (the "inconceivable 
God") is manifest in many forms, these appearing as pairs- 
of-opposites; so that anybody fixing his eyes on but one is 
left open at the back to the other; whereas the art is to 
learn of both, to recognize and come to a knowledge of 
both: again, in the words of Heraclitus, "Good and evil 
are one," and, "God is day and night, summer and winter, 
war and peace, surfeit and hunger." 

Jung terms Extraversion the trend of libido recognized 
by Freud, which is characterized by an openness — one 
might even say vulnerability — of the subject to the object: 
thinking, feeling, and acting in relation, willy-nilly, to the 
claims or appeal of the object. Introversion, on the other 
hand, is the trend recognized by Adler, which is character- 
ized by a concentration of interest in the subject: thinking, 
feeling, and acting in relation primarily to the interests — 
concerns, aims, feelings, and thought processes — of oneself. 
Each attitude, however, is susceptible to enantiodromia, 
and when that occurs there emerge all the other uncon- 
scious contents, contaminating, reinforcing, and bewilder- 
ing one another in such a pell-mell of feeling-toned com- 
plexes as to put one, literally, "beside oneself." 

Jung's concept is that the aim of one's life, psycholog- 
ically speaking, should be not to suppress or repress, but 
to come to know one's other side, and so both to enjoy 
and to control the whole range of one's capacities; i.e., in 
the full sense, to "know oneself." And he terms that faculty 
of the psyche by which one is rendered capable of this 
work of gaining release from the claims of but one or the 

xxviii : Editor's Introduction 

other of any pair-of-opposites, the Transcendent Function, 
which may be thought of as a fifth, at the crossing of the 


Feeling ^^ Thinking 


pairs of the other four. The Transcendent Function works 
through Symbolization, Mythologization; that is, by re- 
leasing names and things from their perceived and con- 
ceived associations, it recognizes them and their contexts 
as delimited representations to our faculties (Sensation, 
Thinking, Feeling, and Intuition) of an undelimited un- 

Jung distinguishes symbols from signs. Living symbols 
become signs when read as referring to something known; 
as, for instance, the cross, to the Church or to a historical 
crucifixion. A sign becomes, on the other hand, a symbol 
when it is read as pointing to an unknown — the incon- 
ceivable "God" beyond the four beams of the cross — to 
which Jesus went when he left his body on the beams; or 
better, which was already immanent in the body on the 
beams; or better still, which is immanent within all bodies 
at the crossing points of lines drawn from the four direc- 
tions. "Individuation" is Jung's term for the process of 
achieving such command of all four functions that, even 
while bound to the cross of this limiting earth (Saint Paul's 
"body of this death"), one might open one's eyes at the 
center, to see, think, feel and intuit transcendence, and 
to act out of such knowledge. This, I would say, is the 
final good, the Summum Bonum, of all his thought and 

Editor's Introduction . xxix 

In 1920, the year before the publication of Psychological 
Types, Jung visited Tunis and Algiers, where for the first 
time he experienced the great world of people living with- 
out clocks and watches. Deeply moved, he came to new 
realizations there concerning the psyche of the modern 
European. And this insight into other worlds was amplified 
when, in 1924 and 1925, he met and talked long at Taos 
Pueblo, New Mexico, with Indians for whom the sun, the 
local mountains, and the local waters still were divine. His 
most important voyage, however, was in 1926, to Kenya, 
Mount Elgon, and the sources of the Nile, where both 
the timeless charm and nobility and the night terrors of 
the primitive condition were made known to him directly, 
and his return trip down the Nile to Egypt became, as he 
described it, a "drama of the birth of light." 

The following year one of the leading Sinologists of the 
period, Richard Wilhelm, sent Jung the manuscript of a 
Chinese Taoist alchemical text entitled The Secret of the 
Golden Flower, which dealt with the problem of a cen- 
tering amidst opposites; and it was, Jung declares, through 
this Chinese text that light on the nature of European as 
well as Far Eastern alchemy first came to him. "Grounded 
in the natural philosophy of the Middle Ages, alchemy 
formed a bridge," he found, "on the one hand into the 
past, to Gnosticism, and on the other into the future, to 
the modern psychology of the unconscious." Moreover, in 
European thought alchemy represented a balancing tradi- 
tion to what Jung had always felt to be an excessively 
masculine, patriarchal emphasis in the usually accepted 
forms of the Jewish and Christian faiths, since in philo- 
sophical alchemy the feminine principle plays a no less 
important part than the masculine. 

Then it came to pass, amid the circle of Jung's now 
numerous company of friends, that there was fashioned 
for him in those4ast decades of his life a new and very 
modern sort of alchemical retort, in the form of a lecture 
hall, open to the fair sky, blue waters, and sublime peaks 

xxx : Editor's Introduction 

of upper Lago Maggiore. Commencing in 1933, constella- 
tions of scholars from all over the world were annually 
invited to read and discuss, from their various learned 
disciplines, papers relevant to the questions of Jungian 
thought. These are the annual Eranos Lectures, delivered 
on the Ascona estate of the foundress, Frau Olga Froebe- 
Kapteyn. Many of the principal papers of Jung's later 
years were first presented at those meetings; and even a 
passing glance at the names of the scholars contributing 
will suffice to make Jung's great point, that "dividing walls 
are transparent," and where insight rules beyond differ- 
ences, all the pairs-of-opposites come together. 

5. Old Age and Retirement (1 946-1 961) 

Collected Works: 

Volume 9.ii. A ion (1951) 

Volume 14. Mysterium Coniunctionis (1955-56) 

Late items, also, in Vols. 3, 8, 9.1., 10, and 11 

The childhood game of building-blocks had developed 
in the middle years of Jung's life into an actual work of 
house-building. In Bollingen, at the waterside of Lake 
Zurich, he bought in 1922 a piece of land and there began 
the unhurried hobby of constructing for himself a castle 
of stone, The Tower, which continued to alter in form with 
the years; and it was largely to that castle of dream — or 
castle-window to eternity — that he repaired when, after 
1946, he resigned the last of his teaching posts, at the Uni- 
versity of Basel, and turned to the final tasks of his still 
developing career. 

Already in 1909, but increasingly during his lonely and 
(as he knew) dangerous descent into the image-producing 
abyss, he had been impressed by the recurrence of certain 
stereotypes among the figures of his dream-fantasies, sug- 
gesting those with which he was aheady acquainted 

Editor's Introduction : xxxi 

through his studies of mythology. "I took great care," he 
states, "to try to understand every single image, every 
item of my psychic inventory, and to classify them scien- 
tifically — so far as this was possible — and, above all, to 
realize them in actual life." During his sessions with pa- 
tients, when they brought dreams to him, day after day, 
he again was identifying, classifying, and striving to eval- 
uate roles: all of which led, finally, to his recognition of 
a cast of inevitable stock characters that have played 
through all time, through the dreams and myths of all 
mankind, in ever-changing situations, confrontations, and 
costumes, yet, for all that, are as predictable in their com- 
pany as the characters of a Punch and Judy stage. 

These are the figures that he variously terms, "primordial 
images" and "archetypes of the unconscious." Like the 
Kantian a priori Forms of Sensibility (space and time), 
which condition all perception, and Categories of Logic 
(quantity, quality, relation, and modality), which precon- 
dition all thought, these Jungian "archetypes" are the a 
priori Forms of Mythic Fantasy. They "are not determined 
as regards their content," he states, "but only as regards 
their form, and then only to a very limited degree. A 
primordial image is determined as to its content only 
when it has become conscious and is therefore filled out 
with the material of conscious experience. Its form, how- 
ever, . . . might perhaps be compared to the axial system 
of a crystal, which, as it were, preforms the crystalline 
structure in the mother liquid, although it has no material 
existence of its own. This first appears according to the 
specific way in which the ions and molecules aggregate. 
The archetype in itself is empty and purely formal, nothing 
but a facultas praeformandi, a possibility of representation 
which is given a priori. The representations themselves are 
not inherited, only the forms, and in that respect they 
correspond in every way to the instincts, which are also 
determined in form only." 

Throughout the pages of Jung's long life-work the mani- 

xxxii : Editor's Introduction 

festations of those archetypes ever appear and reappear; 
and in his old age he summarized their roles in the tidy 
volume A ion (1951), where he treated also, at some 
length, of the Christ image as symbolized in the fish. I 
have chosen from that volume, for Selection 6, the chap- 
ters introducing four of Jung's company of archetypes; and 
have given also, from this period, his speculative essay 
"On Synchronicity" (1951), as well as, finally, his wonder- 
ful "Answer to Job" (1952) . 

After his wife's death in 1955, which smote him hard, 
Jung went to work on a new idea for the further building 
of his Tower, that is to say, of himself, signifying "an ex- 
tension of consciousness achieved in old age." And he 
rounded out, as well, his thirty-year study of alchemy in 
his final masterwork, Mysterium Coniunctionis, where, as 
he states with satisfaction, "my psychology was at last 
given its place in reality and established upon its his- 
torical foundations. Thus my task was finished, my work 
done, and now it can stand." 

Jung died, after a brief illness, at his home in Kusnacht, 
Zurich, June 6, 1961. 


Major publications are marked with asterisks. Numbers in brackets 
indicate sources of selections in this volume. 

/. Boyhood and Student Years (1875-1900) 

1875 Born in Kesswil (Thurgau Canton), Switzerland 

1879 Family moves to Klein-Hiiningen, near Basel 

1 88 1 Schooling commences, in Basel 

1884 Birth of sister 

1896 Death of father 

1898 Investigations of occult phenomena 

1900 Decides to become a psychiatrist 

2. The Scholar Physician: First Period (1 900-1907) 

1900 Appointed Assistant Staff Physician, Burgholzli Mental 

Clinic, under Eugen Bleuler 
1902 Studies theoretical psychopathology at the Salpetriere, 
Paris, under Pierre Janet 

Research experiments in word association, at Burg- 
First publications: 

* On the Psychology and Pathology of So-Called Oc- 
cult Phenomena (CW I ) 

A Case of Hysterical Stupor in a Prisoner in Deten- 
tion (CIV i) 

xxx iv : Chronology 

1903 Marries Emma Rauschenbach (1882-1955) 

On Manic Mood Disorder {CW 1) 
On Simulated Insanity {CW 1) 

1904 A Medical Opinion on a Case of Simulated Insanity 
{CW 1) 

On Hysterical Misreading {CW 1) 
(With F. Riklin) The Associations of Normal Sub- 
jects {CW 2) 

1905 Promoted to Senior Staff Physician, Burgholzli 
Appointed Lecturer in Psychiatry, University of Zurich. 

Cryptomnesia {CW 1) 

On the Psychological Diagnosis of Facts {CW 1) 
An Analysis of the Associations of an Epileptic 
{CW 2) 

Reaction-Time in Association Experiments {CW 2) 
Experimental Observations on Memory {CW 2) 
Psychoanalysis and Association Experiments {CW 2) 
J 906 First meeting with Freud, in Vienna 

A Third and Final Opinion on Two Contradictory 
Diagnoses {CW 1) 

On the Determination of Facts by Psychological 
Means {CW 2) 

Association, Dream, and Hysterical Symptoms {CW 

The Significance of Association Experiments for 
Psychopathology {CW 2) 

* The Psychology of Dementia Praecox' {CW 3) 
Freud's Theory of Hysteria: A Reply to A schaff en- 
burg {CW 4) 

1907 On Disturbances in Reproduction in Association Ex- 
periments {CW 2) 

On Psychophysical Relations of the Associative Ex- 
periment {CW 2) 

(With F. Peterson) Psychophysical Investigations 
with the Galvanometer and Pneumograph in Normal 
and Insane Individuals {CW 2) 

3. The Scholar Physician: Second Period {1908-1912) 

1908 Attends First International Congress of Psycho-Anal- 
ysis, Vienna 

Chronology : xxxv 

(With C. Ricksher) Further Investigations on the 

Galvanic Phenomenon and Respiration in Normal 

and Insane Individuals (CW 2) 

The Content of Psychoses {CW 3) 

The Freudian Theory of Hysteria (CW 4) 

1909 Beginning of intense studies in mythology 

Private practice flourishing; Resigns from Burgholzli 


Journey with Freud to U.S.A.; receives honorary de 

gree, Clark University 

The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the 

Individual (CW 4) 

The Analysis of Dreams (CW 4) 

1910 Attends Second International Congress of Psycho-Anal- 
ysis, Nuremberg; appointed Permanent President 

The Association Method (CW 2) 
A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour (CW 4) 
On the Criticism of Psychoanalysis (CW 4) 
Psychic Conflicts in a Child (CW 17) 

191 1 A Criticism of Bidder's Theory of Schizophrenic 
Negativism (CW 3) 

On the Significance of Number Dreams (CW 4) 
Morton Prince, ''Mechanism and Interpretation of 
Dreams: A Critical Review" (CW 4) 

* Symbols of Transformation, Part I (CW 5) 

1912 Dreams are summoning him to an inward awakening 

Concerning Psychoanalysis (CW 4) 

* Symbols of Transformation, Part II (CW 5) 
New Paths in Psychology (CW 7) 

4. The Scholar Physician: Master Period (1913-1946) 

19 1 3 Break with Freud and Psychoanalytic School 
Resigns Professorship, University of Zurich 

Intense prcoccupalion with images of the unconscious 
The Theory of Psychoanalysis (CW 4) 
General Aspects of Psychoanalysis (CW 4) 

1 9 14 Resigns Presidency of International Congress of Psycho- 

Outbreak of World War I 

xxxv i : Chronology 

The Importance of the Unconscious in Psycho- 

pathology (CW 3) 

On Psychological Understanding (CW 3) 

Some Crucial Points in Psychoanalysis: Jung-Loy 

Correspondence (CW 4) 

1 9 15 Pursues mythological and dream studies 

19 16 Psychoanalysis and Neurosis (CW 4) 

Preface to "Collected Papers on Analytical Psychol- 
ogy" (CW 4) 

The Structure of the Unconscious (CW 7) 
[9] The Transcendent Function (CW 8) 

General Aspects of Dream Psychology (CW 8) 

1917 Second Preface to "Collected Papers on Analytical 
Psychology" (CW 4) 

* On the Psychology of the Unconscious (Part I of 
Two Essays on Analytical Psychology: CW 7) 

1918 Recognition of the self as goal of psychic development 

The Role of the Unconscious (CW 10) 

1919 End of World War I 

[3] Instinct and the Unconscious (CW 8) 

1920 Voyage to Algiers and Tunis 

The Psychological Foundations of Belief in Spirits 
(CW 8) 
192 1 [8] * Psychological Types (CW 6) 

The Therapeutic Value of Ahreaction (CW 16) 

1922 Purchase of Bollingen property 

fio] On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry 
(CW 15) 

1923 Death of mother. Work begun on Bollingen Tower 
1,924 Visit to Taos Pueblo, New Mexico 

1925 Visit to Wembley Exhibition, London 

In Zurich: first seminar conducted in English 
Safari to Kenya, Mount Elgon, and Nile (1925-1926) 
[7] Marriage as a Psychological Relationship (CW 17) 

1926 Return from Africa, via Egypt 

Spirit and Life (CW 8) 

Analytical Psychology and Education: Three Lectures 

(CW 17) 

1927 Mandala studies developing 

[2] The Structure of the Psyche (CW 8) 
Mind and Earth (CW 10) 

Chronology : xxxvii 

Woman in Europe (CW 10) 

Introduction to W tikes' s "Analyse der Kinderseele" 

(CW 17) 

1928 Collaboration with Wilhelm on Chinese text; illumina- 
tions concerning alchemy and mandala symbolism 

[5] The Relations between the Ego and the Unconscious 
(Part II of Two Essays on Analytical Psychology: 
CW 7) 

On Psychic Energy (CW 8) 

Analytical Psychology and Weltanschauung (CW 8) 
[12] The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man (CW 10) 
The Love Problem of a Student (CW 10) 
The Swiss Line in the European Spectrum (CW 10) 
Psychoanalysis and the Cure of Souls (CW 11) 
Child Development and Education (CW 17) 
The Significance of the Unconscious in Individual 
Education (CW 17) 

1929 Freud and Jung: Contrasts (CW 4) 

The Significance of Constitution and Heredity in Psy- 
chology (CW 8) 

* Commentary on "The Secret of the Golden Flower" 
(CW 13) 

Paracelsus (CW 15) 
Problems of Modern Psychotherapy (CW 16) 

1930 Becomes Vice-President, General Medical Society for 

Introduction to Kranefeldt's "Secret Ways of the 
Mind" (CW 4) 
[1] The Stages of Life (CW 8) 

Review of Keyserling's "America Set Free" (CW 10) 
Complications of American Psychology (CW 10) 
Psychology and Literature (CW 15) 
Some Aspects of Modern Psychotherapy (CW 16) 

1931 Basic Postulates of Analytical Psychology (CW 8) 
Archaic Man (CW 10) 

The Aims of Psychotherapy (CW 16) 

1932 Awarded Literary Prize, city of Zurich 

Psychotherapists or the Clergy (CW 11) 
Sigmund Freud in His Historical Setting (CW 15) 
"Ulysses" (CW 15) 
Picasso (CW 15) 

xxxviii : Chronology 

1933 Commences lecturing at Eidgenossische Technische 
Hochschule, Zurich 

Becomes President, General Medical Society for Psy- 
chotherapy: Editorial, on becoming President, in Zen- 
tralblatt fur Psychotherapie und Hire Grenzgebiete 
(Leipzig) VI: 3 (December 1933) (CW 10) 
First Eranos Meeting, Ascona, Switzerland. Jung's pa- 

* A Study in the Process of Individuation (CW 9.1) 
The Real and the Surreal (CW 8) 

The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man (CW 


Brother Klaus (CW 11) 

1934 Founds and becomes first President of International 
General Medical Society for Psychotherapy 

Second Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

* Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious (CW 9-i) 
A Review of the Complex Theory (CW 8) 

The Soul and Death (CW 8) 

The State of Psychotherapy Today (CW 10) 

Review of Keyserling's "La Revolution Mondiale" 

(CW 10) 

A Rejoinder to Dr. Bally (CW 10) 

Circular Letter on the Founding of the International 

General Medical Society for Psychotherapy (CW 


The Practical Use of Dream Analysis (CW 16) 

The Development of the Personality (CW 17) 

1935 Third Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

* Dream Symbols of the Individuation Process (re- 
vised as Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to 
Alchemy, 1936: CW 12) 

Editorial in Zentralblatt VIII: 1; Editorial Note, ibid. 

VII: 2 (both in CW 10) 

Presidential Address, 8th General Medical Congress 

for Psychotherapy, Bad Nauheim (CW 10) 

Contribution to a Discussion of Psychotherapy (CW 


Psychological Commentary on u The Tibetan Book 

of the Dead" (CW 11) 

Principles of Practical Psychotherapy (CW 16) 

Chronology : xxxix 

What Is Psychotherapy (CW 1 6) 

Analytical Psychology: Its Theory and Practice (The 

Tavistock Lectures, London. Published New York: 

Pantheon Books; London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 


1936 Received honorary doctorate, Harvard University 
Fourth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

* Religious Ideas in Alchemy (published as Part III 
of Psychology and Alchemy: CIV 12) 
[4] The Concept of the Collective Unconscious (CW 9-i) 
Concerning the Archetypes, with Special Reference 
to the Anima Concept (CW 9.1) 
Wot an (CW 10) 
Yoga and the West (CW n) 
[11] * Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to Al- 
chemy (CW 12) 

1937 Fifth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

The Visions of Zosimus (CW 13) 
Seminars and lectures in U.S.A. 

Psychological Factors Determining Human Behavior 
(CW 8) 

Presidential Address: 9th International Medical Con- 
gress for Psychotherapy, Copenhagen (CW 10) 
The Realities of Practical Psychotherapy (CW 16) 

1938 Receives honorary doctorate, Oxford; becomes mem- 
ber, Royal Society of Medicine 

Journey to India on invitation of British Government 
of India for 25th Anniversary of University of Calcutta 
Sixth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

Psychological Aspects of the Mother Archetype (CW 


Presidential Address: 10th International Medical 

Congress for Psychotherapy, Oxford, 1938 (CW 10) 

Psychology and Religion (The Terry Lectures, Yale 

University: CW 11) 

1939 Outbreak of World War II 

Appointed Editor, Zentralblatt fur Psychotherapie und 

Hire Grenzgebiete 

Seventh Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

Concerning Rebirth (CW 9.i) 

Conscious, Unconscious, and Individuation (CW 9.i) 

xl : Chronology 

The Dreamlike World of India (CW 10) 
What Can India Teach Us? (CW 10) 
[13] Psychological Commentary to "The Tibetan Book of 
the Great Liberation" (CW 11) 

Foreword to Suzuki's "Introduction to Zen Bud- 
dhism" (CW 11) 

In Memory of Sigmund Freud (CW 15) 
Richard Wilhelm: In Memoriam (CW 15) 

1940 Eighth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

A Psychological Approach to the Idea of the Trinity 

(CW 11) 

The Psychology of the Child Archetype (CW 9.1) 

194 1 Ninth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

Transformation Symbol in the Mass (CW 11) 
The Psychological Aspects of Kore (CW 9.i) 
Paracelsus the Physician (CW 15) 

1942 Resigns post at Eidgenossische Technische Hochschule 

Tenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 
The Spirit Mercurius (CW 13) 
Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon (CW 13) 

1943 Becomes honorary member, Swiss Academy of Sciences 
Eleventh Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent, illness 

The Psychology of Eastern Meditation (CW 11) 
Psychotherapy and a Philosophy of Life (CW 16) 
The Gifted Child (CW 17) 

1944 Occupies Chair in Medical Psychology, founded for 
him at University of Basel; illness forces resignation 
the following year 

Suffers broken foot; heart attack; had new series of 


Twelfth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent, illness 
The Holy Men of India: Introduction to Heinrich 
Zimmer's "Der Weg zum Selbst" (CW 11). Jung 
editor of this posthumous work 

* Psychology and Alchemy (CW 12). Based on two 
papers delivered at Eranos Meetings, 1935, 1936. 

1945 Received honorary doctorate, University of Geneva 
(honoring seventieth birthday) 

Thirteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

Chronology : xli 

The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairytales (CW 


On the Nature of Dreams (CW 8) 
After the Catastrophe {CW 10) 
The Philosophical Tree {CW 13) 
Medicine and Psychotherapy {CW 16) 
Psychology Today {CW 16) 
1946 Fourteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

The Spirit of Psychology (published, enlarged, under 

new title: On the Nature of the Psyche: CW 8) 

Preface and Epilogue to "Essays on Contemporary 

Events" {CW 10) 

The Fight with the Shadow {CW 10) 

* The Psychology of the Transference {CW 16) 

5. Retirement and Old Age {1947-196 1) 

1947 Retirement to Bollingen Tower 

Fifteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent 

1948 Sixteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper: 

On the Self (later incorporated as Chap. IV, CW 9.ii) 
Reworking of many earlier papers 

1949 Seventeenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent 

1950 Eighteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent 

Reworking of earlier papers 

Concerning Mandala Symbolism {CW 9.i) 

Foreword to '7 Ching" {CW 11) 

195 1 Nineteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. 1 Jung's paper: 
[14] On Synchronicity {CW 8) 

[6] * A ion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the 
Self {CW 9.ii) 

Prefatory Note to English Edition of Psychology and 
Alchemy {CW 12) 
Fundamental Questions of Psychotherapy (CW 16) 

1952 Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle 
(CW 8) 

1 Eranos Meetings have continued to the present. Jung's participation 
ceased in 1951. 

xlii : Chronology 

Foreword to White's "God and the Unconscious" 
(CW II) 

Foreword to Werblowsky's "Lucifer and Prometheus'* 
(CW II) 
[15] * Answer to Job (CW 11) 

1953 Foreword to John Weir Perry's "The Self in Psychotic 
Process. Its Symbol 'nation in Schizophrenia" (Berke- 
ley and Los Angeles: University of California Press; 
London: Cambridge University Press) 

1954 Reworking of earlier papers 

On the Psychology of the Trickster Figure (CW 9.1) 

1955 Death of Emma Rauschenbach Jung 

Receives honorary doctorate, Eidgenossische Technische 
Hochschule, Zurich (honoring eightieth birthday) 
Culmination and conclusion of alchemical studies 

Mandalas (CW 9.1) 

* Mysterium Coniunctionis (CW 14) 

1956 Why and How I Wrote My "Answer to Job" (CW 

1957 Conversation with John M. Billinsky, quoted above, pp. 

The Undiscovered Self (Present and Future) (CW 

1958 Work on autobiographical Memories, Dreams, Reflec- 

Flying Saucers: A Modern Myth (CW 10) 
A Psychological View of Conscience (CW 10) 

1959 Good and Evil in Analytical Psychology (CW 10) 
Introduction to Wolff's "Studies in Jungian Psychol- 
ogy (CW 10) 

i960 Foreword to Miguel Serrano's "The Visits of the 
Queen of Sheba" (Bombay and London: Asia Publish- 
ing House) 
1 96 1 Death, after brief illness, June 6, at his home in 
Kusnacht, Zurich 

Part I M 


The Stages of Life 1 

To discuss the problems connected with the stages of hu- 
man development is an exacting task, for it means nothing 
less than unfolding a picture of psychic life in its entirety 
from the cradle to the grave. Within the framework of a 
lecture such a task can be carried out only on the broadest 
lines, and it must be well understood that no attempt will 
be made to describe the normal psychic occurrences within 
the various stages. We shall restrict ourselves, rather, to 
certain "problems," that is, to things that are difficult, 
questionable, or ambiguous; in a word, to questions which 
allow of more than one answer — and, moreover, answers 
that are always open to doubt. For this reason there will 
be much to which we must add a question-mark in our 
thoughts. Worse still, there will be some things we must 
accept on faith, while now and then we must even indulge 
in speculations. 

1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyclie. Collected 
Works, Vol. 8, pars. 749-795. [Originally published as "Die 
seelischcn Problcmc der mcnschlichen Allerstufen," t\'eue Ziircher 
Zeitung, March 14 and 16, 1930. Revised and largely rewritten, 
it was republished as "Die Lebcnswcnde," Seelenprobleme der 
(Jet>em\ai[ (Psychologischc Abrumdlunger, III; Zurich. 1931), which 
version was translated by \V. S. Dell and Cary F. Bavnes as 'The 
Stages of Life," Modern Man in Search of a Soul (i.o\u\o\\ and 
New York, 1933). The present translation by R. F. C. Hull is based 
on this. — Edmors of The Collected Works.] 

4 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

If psychic life consisted only of self-evident matters of 
fact — which on a primitive level is still the case — we could 
content ourselves with a sturdy empiricism. The psychic 
life of civilized man, however, is full of problems; we can- 
not even think of it except in terms of problems. Our 
psychic processes are made up to a large extent of reflec- 
tions, doubts, experiments, all of which are almost com- 
pletely foreign to the unconscious, instinctive mind of 
primitive man. It is the growth of consciousness which we 
must thank for the existence of problems; they are the 
Danaan gift of civilization. It is just mans turning away 
from instinct — his opposing himself to instinct — that cre- 
ates consciousness. Instinct is nature and seeks to per- 
petuate nature, whereas consciousness can only seek cul- 
ture or its denial. Even when we turn back to nature, in- 
spired by a Rousseauesque longing, we "cultivate" nature. 
As long as we are still submerged in nature we are un- 
conscious, and we live in the security of instinct which 
knows no problems. Everything in us that still belongs to 
nature shrinks away from a problem, for its name is doubt, 
and wherever doubt holds sway there, is uncertainty and 
the possibility of divergent ways. And where several ways 
seem possible, there we have turned away from the certain 
guidance of instinct and are handed over to fear. For con- 
sciousness is now called upon to do that which nature has 
always done for her children — namely, to give a certain, 
unquestionable, and unequivocal decision. And here we 
are beset by an all-too-human fear that consciousness — 
our Promethean conquest — may in the end not be able to 
serve us as well as nature. 

Problems thus draw us into an orphaned and isolated 
state where we are abandoned by nature and are driven to 
consciousness. There is no other way open to us; we are 
forced to resort to conscious decisions and solutions where 
formerly we trusted ourselves to natural happenings. Every 
problem, therefore, brings the possibility of a widening of 
consciousness, but also the necessity of saying goodbye to 

The Stages of Life : 5 

cnildlike unconsciousness and trust in nature. This neces- 
sity is a psychic fact of such importance that it constitutes 
one of the most essential symbolic teachings of the Chris- 
tian religion. It is the sacrifice of the merely natural man, 
of the unconscious, ingenuous being whose tragic career 
beg; n with the eating of the apple in Paradise. The biblical 
fall of man presents the dawn of consciousness as a curse. 
And as a matter of fact it is in this light that we first look 
upon every problem that forces us to greater consciousness 
and separates us even further from the paradise of un- 
conscious childhood. Every one of us gladly turns away 
from his problems; if possible, they must not be mentioned, 
or, better still, their existence is denied. We wish to make 
our lives simple, certain, and smooth, and for that reason 
problems are taboo. We want to have certainties and no 
doubts — results and no experiments — without even seeing 
that certainties can arise only through doubt and results 
only through experiment. The artful denial of a problem 
will not produce conviction; on the contrary, a wider and 
higher consciousness is required to give us the certainty 
and clarity we need. 

This introduction, long as it is, seemed to me necessary 
in order to make clear the nature of our subject. When we 
must deal with problems, we instinctively resist trying the 
way that leads through obscurity and darkness. We wish 
to hear only of unequivocal results, and completely forget 
that these results can only be brought about when we have 
ventured into and emerged again from the darkness. But 
to penetrate the darkness we must summon all the powers 
of enlightenment that consciousness can offer; as I have 
already said, we must even indulge in speculations. For 
in treating the problems of psychic life we perpetually 
stumble upon questions of principle belonging to the pri- 
vate domains of the most heterogeneous branches of 
knowledge. We disturb and anger the theologian no less 
than the philosopher, the physician no less than the educa- 
tor; we even grope about in the field of the biologist and 

6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

of the historian. This extravagant behaviour is due not to 
arrogance but to the circumstance that man's psyche is a 
unique combination of factors which are at the same time 
the special subjects of far-reaching lines of research. For 
it is out of himself and out of his peculiar constitution 
that man has produced his sciences. They are symptoms 
of his psyche. 

If, therefore, we ask ourselves the unavoidable question, 
"Why does man, in obvious contrast to the animal world, 
have problems at all?" we run into that inextricable tangle 
of thoughts which many thousands of incisive minds have 
woven in the course of the centuries. I shall not perform 
the labours of a Sisyphus upon this masterpiece of con- 
fusion, but will try to present quite simply my contribution 
toward man's attempt to answer this basic question. 

There are no problems without consciousness. We must 
therefore put the question in another v/ay and ask, "How 
does consciousness arise in the first place?" Nobody can 
say with certainty; but we can observe small children in 
the process of becoming conscious. Every parent can see it 
if he pays attention. And what we see is this: when the 
child recognizes someone or something — when he "knows" 
a person or a thing — then we feel that the child has con- 
sciousness, That, no doubt, is also why in Paradise it was 
the tree of knowledge which bore such fateful fruit. 

But what is recognition or "knowledge" in this sense? 
We speak of "knowing" something when we succeed in 
linking a new perception to an already existing context, in 
such a way that we hold in consciousness not only the 
perception but parts of this context as well. "Knowing" is 
based, therefore, upon the perceived connection between 
psychic contents. We can have no knowledge of a content 
that is not connected with anything, and we cannot even 
be conscious of it should our consciousness still be on this 
low initial level. Accordingly the first stage of conscious- 
ness which we can observe consists in the mere connection 
between two or more psychic contents. At this level, con- 

The Stages of Life : 7 

sciousness is merely sporadic, being limited to the percep- 
tion of a few connections, and the content is not remem- 
bered later on. It is a fact that in the early years of life 
there is no continuous memory; at most there are islands 
of consciousness which are like single lamps or lighted 
objects in the far-flung darkness. But these islands of mem- 
ory are not the same as those earliest connections which 
are merely perceived; they contain a new, very important 
series of contents belonging to the perceiving subject him- 
self, the so-called ego. This series, like the initial series of 
contents, is at first merely perceived, and for this reason 
the child logically begins by speaking of itself objectively, 
in the third person. Only later, when the ego-contents — 
the so-called ego-complex — have acquired an energy of 
their own (very likely as a result of training and practice) 
does the feeling of subjectivity or 'T-ness" arise. This may 
well be the moment when the child begins to speak of it- 
self in the first person. The continuity of memory prob- 
ably begins at this stage. Essentially, therefore, it would 
be a continuity of ego-memories. 

In the childish stage of consciousness there are as yet no 
problems; nothing depends upon the subject, for the child 
itself is still wholly dependent on its parents. It is as 
though it were not yet completely born, but were still en- 
closed in the psychic atmosphere of its parents. Psychic 
birth, and with it the conscious differentiation from the 
parents, normally takes place only at puberty, with the 
eruption of sexuality. The physiological change is attended 
by a psychic revolution. For the various bodily manifesta- 
tions give such an emphasis to the ego that it often asserts 
itself without stint or moderation. This is sometimes called 
"the unbearable age." 

Until this period is reached the psychic life of the in- 
dividual is governed largely by instinct, and few or no 
problems arise. Even when external limitations oppose his 
subjective impulses, these restraints do not put the individ- 
ual at variance with himself. He submits to them or cir- 

8 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

cumvcnts them, remaining quite at one with himself. He 
does not yet know the state of inner tension induced by 
a problem. This state only arises when what was an ex- 
ternal limitation becomes an inner one; when one impulse 
is opposed by another. In psychological language we would 
say: the problematical state, the inner division with one- 
self, arises when, side by side with the series of ego-con- 
tents, a second series of equal intensity comes into being. 
This second series, because of its energy value, has a func- 
tional significance equal to that of the ego-complex; we 
might call it another, second ego which can on occasion 
even wrest the leadership from the first. This produces the 
division with oneself, the state that betokens a problem. 

To recapitulate what wc have said: the first stage of 
consciousness, consisting in merely recognizing or "know- 
ing/' is an anarchic or chaotic state. The second, that of 
the developed ego-complex, is monarchic or monistic. The 
third brings another step forward in consciousness, and 
consists in an awareness of the divided, or dualistic, state. 

And here we come to our real theme — the problem of 
the stages of life. First of all we must deal with the period 
of youth. It extends roughly from the years just after pu- 
berty to middle life, which itself begins between the thirty- 
fifth and fortieth year. 

1 might well be asked why I begin with the second stage, 
as though there were no problems connected with child- 
hood. The complex psychic life of the child is, of course, 
a problem of the first magnitude to parents, educators, and 
doctors, but when normal the child has no real problems of 
its own. It is only the adult human being who can have 
doubts about himself and be at variance with himself. 

Wc are all familiar with the sources of the problems 
that arise in the period of youth. For most people it is the 
demands of life which harshly put an end to the dream of 
childhood. If the individual is sufficiently well prepared, 
the transition to a profession or career can take place 
smoothly. But if he clings to illusions that are contrary to 

The Stages of Life : 9 

reality, then problems will surely arise. No one can take 
the step into life without making certain assumptions, and 
occasionally these assumptions are false — that is, they do 
not fit the conditions into which one is thrown. Often it 
is a question of exaggerated expectations, underestimation 
of difficulties, unjustified optimism, or a negative attitude. 
One could compile quite a list of the false assumptions 
that give rise to the first conscious problems. 

But it is not always the contradiction between subjective 
assumptions and external facts that gives rise to problems; 
it may just as often be inner, psychic difficulties. They 
may exist even when things run smoothly in the outside 
world. Very often it is the disturbance of psychic equilib- 
rium caused by the sexual instinct; equally often it is the 
feeling of inferiority which springs from an unbearable 
sensitivity. These inner conflicts may exist even when 
adaptation to the outer world has been achieved without 
apparent effort. It even seems as if young people who have 
had a hard struggle for existence are spared inner problems, 
while those who for some reason or other have no difficulty 
with adaptation run into problems of sex or conflicts arising 
from a sense of inferiority. 

People whose own temperaments offer problems are often 
neurotic, but it would be a serious misunderstanding to 
confuse the existence of problems with neurosis. There is 
a marked difference between the two in that the neurotic 
is ill because he is unconscious of his problems, while the 
person with a difficult temperament suffers from his con- 
scious problems without being ill. 

If we try to extract the common and essential factors 
from the almost inexhaustible variety of individual prob- 
lems found in the period of youth, we meet in all cases 
with one particular feature: a more or less patent clinging 
to the childhood level of consciousness, a resistance to the 
fateful forces in and around us which would involve us in 
the world. Something in us wishes to remain a child, to be 
unconscious or, at most, conscious only of the ego; to 

to : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

reject everything strange, or else subject it to our will; to 
do nothing, or else indulge our own craving for pleasure 
or power. In all this there is something of the inertia of 
matter; it is a persistence in the previous state whose range 
of consciousness is smaller, narrower, and more egoistic 
than that of the dualistic phase. For here the individual is 
faced with the necessity of recognizing and accepting what 
is different and strange as a part of his own life, as a kind 
of "also-I." 

The essential feature of the dualistic phase is the widen- 
ing of the horizon of life, and it is this that is so vigorously 
resisted. To be sure, this expansion — or diastole, as Goethe 
called it — had started long before this. It begins at birth, 
when the child abandons the narrow confinement of the 
mother's body; and from then on it steadily increases until 
it reaches a climax in the problematical state, when the 
individual begins to struggle against it. 

What would happen to him if he simply changed him- 
self into that foreign-seeming "also-I" and allowed the 
earlier c^o to vanish into the past? We might suppose this 
to be a quite practical course. The very aim of religious 
education, from the exhortation to put off the old Adam 
right back to the rebirth rituals of primitive races, is to 
transform the human being into the new, future man, and 
to allow the old to die away. 

Psychology teaches us that, in a certain sense, there is 
nothing in the psyche that is old; nothing that can really, 
finally die away. Even Paul was left with a thorn in the 
flesh. Whoever protects himself against what is new and 
strange and regresses to the past falls into the same neurotic 
condition as the man who identifies himself with the new 
and runs away from the past. The only difference is that 
the one has estranged himself from the past and the other 
from the future. In principle both are doing the same thing; 
they are reinforcing their narrow range of consciousness 
instead of shattering it in the tension of opposites and 
building up a state of wider and higher consciousness. 

The Stages of Life : u 

This outcome would be ideal if it could be brought about 
in the second stage of life — but there's the rub. For one 
thing, nature cares nothing whatsoever about a higher level 
of consciousness; quite the contrary. And then society 
does not value these feats of the psyche very highly; its 
prizes are always given for achievement and not for per- 
sonality, the latter being rewarded for the most part post- 
humously. These facts compel us towards a particular 
solution: we are forced to limit ourselves to the attainable, 
and to differentiate particular aptitudes in which the so- 
cially effective individual discovers his true self. 

Achievement, usefulness and so forth are the ideals that 
seem to point the way out of the confusions of the problem- 
atical state. They are the lodestars that guide us in the 
adventure of broadening and consolidating our physical 
existence; they help us to strike our roots in the world, 
but they cannot guide us in the development of that wider 
consciousness to which we give the name of culture. In 
the period of youth, however, this course is the normal one 
and in all circumstances preferable to merely tossing about 
in a welter of problems. 

The dilemma is often solved, therefore, in this way: 
whatever is given to us by the past is adapted to the possi- 
bilities and demands of the future. We limit ourselves to 
the attainable, and this means renouncing all our other 
psychic potentialities. One man loses a valuable piece of 
his past, another a valuable piece of his future. Everyone 
can call to mind friends or schoolmates who were promis- 
ing and idealistic youngsters, but who, when we meet them 
again years later, seem to have grown dry and cramped in 
a narrow mould. These are examples of the solution men- 
tioned above. 

The serious problems in life, however, are never fully 
solved. If ever they should appear to be so it is a sure 
sign that something has been lost. The meaning and pur- 
pose of a problem seem to lie not in its solution but in our 
working at it incessantly. This alone preserves us from 

12 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

stultification and petrifaction. So also the solution 'of the 
problems of youth by restricting ourselves to the attainable 
is only temporarily valid and not lasting in a deeper sense. 
Of course, to win for oneself a place in society and to 
transform one's nature so that it is more or less fitted to 
this kind of existence is in all cases a considerable achieve- 
ment. It is a fight waged within oneself as well as outside, 
comparable to the struggle of the child for an ego. That 
struggle is for the most part unobserved because it happens 
in the dark; but when we see how stubbornly childish 
illusions and assumptions and egoistic habits are still clung 
to in later years we can gain some idea of the energies that 
were needed to form them. And so it is with the ideals, 
convictions, guiding ideas and attitudes which in the period 
of youth lead us out into life, for which we struggle, suffer, 
and win victories: they grow together with our own being, 
we apparently change into them, we seek to perpetuate 
them indefinitely and as a matter of course, just as the 
young person asserts his ego in spite of the world and 
often in spite of himself. 

The nearer we approach to the middle of life, and the 
better we have succeeded in entrenching ourselves in our 
personal attitudes and social positions, the more it appears 
as if we had discovered the right course and the right 
ideals and principles of behaviour. For this reason we 
suppose them to be eternally valid, and make a virtue of 
unchangeably clinging to them. We overlook the essential 
fact that the social goal is attained only at the cost of a 
diminution of personality. Many — far too many — aspects 
of life which should also have been experienced lie in the 
lumber-room among dusty memories; but sometimes, too, 
they are glowing coals under grey ashes. 

Statistics show a rise in the frequency of mental depres- 
sions in men about forty. In women the neurotic difficulties 
generally begin somewhat earlier. We see that in this phase 
of life — between thirty-five and forty — an important change 
in the human psyche is in preparation. At first it is not a 

The Stages of Life : 13 

conscious and striking change; it is rather a matter of 
indirect signs of a change which seems to take its rise in 
the unconscious. Often it is something like a slow change 
in a person's character; in another case certain traits may 
come to light which had disappeared since childhood; 
or again, one's previous inclinations and interests begin 
to weaken and others take their place. Conversely — and 
this happens very frequently — one's cherished convictions 
and principles, especially the moral ones, begin to harden 
and to grow increasingly rigid until, somewhere around 
the age of fifty, a period of intolerance and fanaticism is 
reached. It is as if the existence of these principles were 
endangered and it were therefore necessary to emphasize 
them all the more. 

The wine of youth does not always clear with advancing 
years; sometimes it grows turbid. All the phenomena men- 
tioned above can best be seen in rather one-sided people, 
turning up sometimes sooner and sometimes later. Their 
appearance, it seems to me, is often delayed by the fact 
that the parents of the person in question are still alive. 
It is then as if the period of youth were being unduly 
drawn out. I have seen this especially in the case of men 
whose fathers were long-lived. The death of the father then 
has the effect of a precipitate and almost catastrophic 

I know of a pious man who was a churchwarden and 
who, from the age of forty onward, showed a growing and 
finally unbearable intolerance in matters of morality and re- 
ligion. At the same time his moods grew visibly worse. 
At last he was nothing more than a darkly lowering pillar 
of the Church. In this way he got along until the age of 
fifty-five, when suddenly, sitting up in bed in the middle 
of the night, he said to his wife: 4i Now at last I've got it! 
I'm just a plain rascal." Nor did this realization remain 
without results. He spent his declining years in riotous 
living and squandered a goodly part of his fortune. Ob- 
viously quite a likable fellow, capable of both extremes! 

14 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

The very frequent neurotic disturbances of adult years 
all have one thing in common: they want to carry the 
psychology of the youthful phase over the threshold of 
the so-called years of discretion. Who does not know those 
touching old gentlemen who must always warm up the dish 
of their student days, who can fan the flame of life only 
by reminiscences of their heroic youth, but who, for the 
rest, are stuck in a hopelessly wooden Philistinism? As a 
rule, to be sure, they have this one merit which it would 
be wrong to undervalue: they are not neurotic, but only 
boring and stereotyped. The neurotic is rather a person 
who can never have things as he would like them in the 
present, and who can therefore never enjoy the past either. 

As formerly the neurotic could not escape from child- 
hood, so now he cannot part with his youth. He shrinks 
from the grey thoughts of approaching age, and, feeling 
the prospect before him unbearable, is always straining 
to look behind him. Just as the childish person shrinks 
back from the unknown in the world and in human exist- 
ence, so the grown man shrinks back from the second 
half of life. It is as if unknown and dangerous tasks awaited 
him, or as if he were threatened with sacrifices and losses 
which he does not wish to accept, or as if his life up to 
now seemed to him so fair and precious that he could not 
relinquish it. 

Is it perhaps at bottom the fear of death? That does 
not seem to me very probable, because as a rule death is 
still far in the distance and therefore somewhat abstract. 
Experience shows us, rather, that the basic cause of all the 
difficulties of this transition is to be found in a deep-seated 
and peculiar change within the psyche. In order to char- 
acterize it I must take for comparison the daily course of 
the sun— but a sun that is endowed with human feeling 
and man's limited consciousness. In the morning it rises 
from the nocturnal sea of unconsciousness and looks upon 
the wide, bright world which lies before it in an expanse 
that steadily widens the higher it climbs in the firmament. In 

The Stages of Life : L5 

this extension of its field of action caused by its own 
rising, the sun will discover its significance; it will see the 
attainment of the greatest possible height, and the widest 
possible dissemination of its blessings, as its goal. In this 
conviction the sun pursues its course to the unforeseen 
zenith — unforeseen, because its career is unique and in- 
dividual, and the culminating point could not be calculated 
in advance. At the stroke of noon the descent begins. And 
the descent means the reversal of all the ideals and values 
that were cherished in the morning. The sun falls into 
contradiction with itself. It is as though it should draw in 
its rays instead of emitting them. Light and warmth decline 
and are at last extinguished. 

All comparisons are lame, but this simile is at least not 
lamer than others. A French aphorism sums it up with 
cynical resignation: Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait. 

Fortunately we are not rising and setting suns, for then 
it would fare badly with our cultural values. But there is 
something sunlike within us, and to speak of the morning 
and spring, of the evening and autumn of life is not mere 
sentimental jargon. We thus give expression to psychologi- 
cal truths and, even more, to physiological facts, for the 
reversal of the sun at noon changes even bodily character- 
istics. Especially among southern races one can observe 
that older women develop deep, rough voices, incipient 
moustaches, rather hard features and other masculine 
traits. On the other hand the masculine physique is toned 
down by feminine features, such as adiposity and softer 
facial expressions. 

There is an interesting report in the ethnological litera- 
ture about an Indian warrior chief to whom in middle life 
the Great Spirit appeared in a dream. The spirit announced 
to him that from then on he must sit among the women 
and children, wear women's clothes, and eat the food of 
women. He obeyed the dream without suffering a loss of 
prestige. This vision is a true expression of the psychic 
revolution of life's noon, of the beginning of life's de- 

j 6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

cline. Man's values, and even his body, do tend to change 
into their opposites. 

We might compare masculinity and femininity and their 
psychic components to a definite store of substances of 
which, in the first half of life, unequal use is made. A man 
consumes his large supply of masculine substance and has 
left over only the smaller amount of feminine substance, 
which must now be put to use. Conversely, the woman 
allows her hitherto unused supply of masculinity to be- 
come active. 

This change is even more noticeable in the psychic realm 
than in the physical. How often it happens that a man of 
forty-five or fifty winds up his business, and the wife then 
dons the trousers and opens a little shop where he perhaps 
performs the duties of a handyman. There are many women 
who only awaken to social responsibility and to social 
consciousness after their fortieth year. In modern business 
life, especially in America, nervous breakdowns in the 
forties are a very common occurrence. If one examines 
the victims one finds that what has broken down is the 
masculine style of life which held the field up to now, 
and that what is left over is an effeminate man. Con- 
trariwise, one can observe women in these selfsame busi- 
ness spheres who have developed in the second half of 
life an uncommonly masculine tough-mindedness which 
thrusts the feelings and the heart aside. Very often these 
changes are accompanied by all sorts of catastrophes in 
marriage, for it is not hard to imagine what will happen 
vshen the husband discovers his tender feelings and the wife 
her sharpness of mind. 

The worst o( it all is that intelligent and cultivated peo- 
ple live their lives without even knowing of the possibility 
of such transformations. Wholly unprepared, they embark 
upon the second half of life. Or are there perhaps colleges 
for forty-year-olds which prepare them for their coming 
life and its demands as the ordinary colleges introduce 
our young people to a knowledge of the world? No, thor- 

The Stages of Life : 17 

oughly unprepared we take the step into the afternoon of 
life; worse still, we take this step with the false assumption 
that our truths and ideals will serve us as hitherto. But we 
cannot live the afternoon of life according to the pro- 
gramme of life's morning; for what was great in the 
morning will be little at evening, and what in the morning 
was true will at evening have become a lie. I have given 
psychological treatment to too many people of advancing 
years, and have looked too often into the secret chambers 
of their souls, not to be moved by this fundamental truth. 

Ageing people should know that their lives are not 
mounting and expanding, but that an inexorable inner 
process enforces the contraction of life. For a young per- 
son it is almost a sin, or at least a danger, to be too 
preoccupied with himself; but for the ageing person it is 
a duty and a necessity to devote serious attention to him- 
self. After having lavished its light upon the world, the 
sun withdraws its rays in order to illuminate its?lf. Instead 
of doing likewise, many old people prefer to be hypochon- 
driacs, niggards, pedants, applauders of the past or else 
eternal adolescents — all lamentable substitutes for the 
illumination of the self, but inevitable consequences of the 
delusion that the second half of life must be governed by 
the principles of the first. 

I said just now that we have no schools for forty-year- 
olds. That is not quite true. Our religions were always 
such schools in the past, but how many people regard 
them as such today? How many of us older ones have been 
brought up in such a school and really prepared for the 
second half of life, for old age, death and eternity? 

A human being would certainly not grow to be seventy 
or eighty years old if this longevity had no meaning for 
the species. The afternoon of human life must also have 
a significance of its own and cannot be merely a pitiful 
appendage to life's morning. The significance of the morn- 
ing undoubtedly lies in the development of the individual, 
our entrenchment in the outer world, the propagation of 

iS : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

our kind, and the care of our children. This is the obvious 
purpose of nature. But when this purpose has been attained 
— and more than attained — shall the earning of money, 
the extension of conquests, and the expansion of life go 
steadily on beyond the bounds of all reason and sense? 
Whoever carries over into the afternoon the law of the 
morning, or the natural aim, must pay for it with damage 
to his soul, just as surely as a growing youth who tries 
to carry over his childish egoism into adult life must pay 
for this mistake with social failure. Money-making, social 
achievement, family and posterity are nothing but plain 
nature, not culture. Culture lies outside the purpose of 
nature. Could by any chance culture be the meaning and 
purpose of the second half of life? 

In primitive tribes we observe that the old people are 
almost always the guardians of the mysteries and the laws, 
and it is in these that the cultural heritage of the tribe is 
expressed. How does the matter stand with us? Where is 
the wisdom of our old people, where are their precious 
secrets and their visions? For the most part our old people 
try to compete with the young. In the United States it is 
almost an ideal for a father to be the brother of his sons, 
and for the mother to be if possible the younger sister of 
her daughter. 

I do not know how much of this confusion is a reaction 
against an earlier exaggeration of the dignity of age, and 
how much is to be charged to false ideals. These undoubt- 
edly exist, and the goal of those who hold them lies behind, 
and not ahead. Therefore they are always striving to turn 
back. We have to grant these people that it is hard to see 
what other goal the second half of life can offer than the 
well-known aims of the first. Expansion of life, usefulness, 
efficiency, the cutting of a figure in society, the shrewd 
steering of offspring into suitable marriages and good 
positions—are not these purposes enough? Unfortunately 
not enough meaning and purpose for those who see in 
the approach of old age a mere diminution of life and can 

The Si ages of Life : /o 

feel their earlier ideals only as something faded and worn 
out. Of course, if these persons had filled up the beaker 
of life earlier and emptied it to the lees, they would feel 
quite difTerently about everything now; they would have 
kept nothing back, everything that wanted to catch fire 
would have been consumed, and the quiet of old age would 
be very welcome to them. But we must not forget that only 
a very few people are artists in life; that the art of life is 
the most distinguished and rarest of all the arts. Who ever 
succeeded in draining the whole cup with grace? So for 
many people all too much unlived life remains over — 
sometimes potentialities which they could never have lived 
with the best of wills, so that they approach the threshold 
of old age with unsatisfied demands which inevitably turn 
their glances backwards. 

It is particularly fatal for such people to look back. 
For them a prospect and a goal in the future are absolutely 
necessary. That is why all great religions hold out the 
promise of a life beyond, of a supramundane goal which 
makes it possible for mortal man to live the second half 
of life with as much purpose and aim as the first. For the 
man of today the expansion of life and its culmination are 
plausible goals, but the idea of life after death seems to 
him questionable or beyond belief. Life's cessation, that 
is, death, can only be accepted as a reasonable goal cither 
when existence is so wretched that we are only too glad 
for it to end, or when we are convinced that the sun strives 
to its setting "to illuminate distant races" with the same 
logical consistency it showed in rising to the zenith. But 
to believe has become such a difficult art today that it is 
beyond the capacity of most people, particularly the edu- 
cated part of humanity. They have become too accustomed 
to the thought that, with regard to immortality and such 
questions, there are innumerable contradictory opinions 
and no convincing proofs. And since "science" is the 
catchword that seems to carry the weight of absolute con- 
viction in the contemporary world, we ask for "scientific" 

20 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

proofs. But educated people who can think know very well 
that proof of this kind is a philosophical impossibility. 
We simply cannot know anything whatever about such 

May I remark that for the same reasons we cannot know, 
either, whether something does happen to a person after 
death? No answer of any kind is permissible, either for 
or against. We simply have no definite scientific knowledge 
about it one way or the other, and are therefore in the 
same position as when we ask whether the planet Mars is 
inhabited or not. And the inhabitants of Mars, if there are 
any, are certainly not concerned whether we affirm or 
deny their existence. They may exist or they may not. 
And that is how it stands with so-called immortality — 
with which we may shelve the problem. 

But here my medical conscience awakens and urges 
me to say a word which has an important bearing on this 
question. 1 have observed that a life directed to an aim 
is in general better, richer, and healthier than an aimless 
one, and that it is better to go forwards with the stream 
of time than backwards against it. To the psychotherapist 
an old man who cannot bid farewell to life appears as 
feeble and sickly as a young man who is unable to embrace 
it. And as a matter of fact, it is in many cases a question 
of the selfsame childish greediness, the same fear, the 
same defiance and wilfulness, in the one as in the other. As 
a doctor I am convinced that it is hygienic — if I may use 
the word— to discover in death a goal towards which one 
can strive, and that shrinking away from it is something 
unhealthy and abnormal which robs the second half of life 
of its purpose 1 therefore consider that all religions with a 
supramundane goal are eminently reasonable from the 
point of view of psychic hygiene. When I live in a house 
winch I know will fall about my head within, the next two 
weeks, all my vital functions will be impaired by this 
thought; but n" on the contrary 1 feel myself to be safe, I 
can dwell there in a normal and comfortable way. From 

The Stages of Life : 21 

the standpoint of psychotherapy it would therefore be 
desirable to think of death as only a transition, as part of a 
life process whose extent and duration arc beyond our 

In spite of the fact that the majority of people do not 
know why the body needs salt, everyone demands it none- 
theless because of an instinctive need. It is the same with 
the things of the psyche. By far the greater portion of 
mankind have from time immemorial felt the need of 
believing in a continuance of life. The demands of therapy, 
therefore, do not lead us into any bypaths but down the 
middle of the highway trodden by humanity. For this 
reason we are thinking correctly, and in harmony with 
life, even though we do not understand what we think. 

Do we ever understand what we think? We only under- 
stand that kind of thinking which is a mere equation, 
from which nothing comes out but what we have put in. 
That is the working of the intellect. But besides that there 
is a thinking in primordial images, in symbols which are 
older than the historical man, which are inborn in him 
from the earliest times, and, eternally living, outlasting all 
generations, still make up the groundwork of the human 
psyche. It is only possible to live the fullest life when we 
are in harmony with these symbols; wisdom is a return 
to them. It is a question neither of belief nor of knowl- 
edge, but of the agreement of our thinking with the pri- 
mordial images of the unconscious. They are the unthink- 
able matrices of all our thoughts, no matter what our 
conscious mind may cogitate. One of these primordial 
thoughts is the idea of life after death. Science and these 
primordial images are incommcnsurablcs. They are irra- 
tional data, a priori conditions of the imagination which 
are simply there, and whose purpose and justification 
science can only investigate a posteriori, much as it in- 
vestigates a function like that of the thyroid gland. Before 
the nineteenth century the thyroid was regarded as a 
meaningless organ merely because it was not understood. 

22 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

It would be equally shortsighted of us today to call the 
primordial images senseless. For me these images are 
something like psychic organs, and I treat them with the 
very greatest respect. It happens sometimes that I must say 
to an older patient: "Your picture of God or your idea of 
immortality is atrophied, consequently your psychic metab- 
olism is out of gear." The ancient athanasias pharmakon, 
the medicine of immortality, is more profound and mean- 
ingful than we supposed. 

In conclusion I would like to come back for a moment 
to the comparison with the sun. The one hundred and 
eighty degrees of the arc of life are divisible into four 
parts. The first quarter, lying to the east, is childhood, 
that state in which we are a problem for others but are 
not yet conscious of any problems of our own. Conscious 
problems fill out the second and third quarters; while in 
the last, in extreme old a^e, we descend a^ain into that 
condition where, regardless of our state of consciousness, 
we once more become something of a problem for others. 
Childhood and extreme old age are, of course, utterly 
ditTerent, and yet they have one thing in common: sub- 
mersion in unconscious psychic happenings. Since the mind 
ot a child grows out of the unconscious its psychic proc- 
esses, though not easily accessible, are not as difficult to 
discern as those of a very old person who is sinking again 
into the unconscious, and who progressively vanishes within 
it. Childhood and old age are the stages of life without any 
conscious problems, for which reason I have not taken 
them into consideration here. 


The Structure of 
the Psyche 1 

The psyche, as a reflection of the world and man, is a 
thing of such infinite complexity that it can be observed 
and studied from a great many sides. It faces us with the 
same problem that the world does: because a systematic 
study of the world is beyond our powers, we have to 
content ourselves with mere rules of thumb and with aspects 
that particularly interest us. Everyone makes for himself 
his own segment of world and constructs his own private 
system, often with air-tight compartments, so that after a 
time it seems to him that he has grasped the meaning and 
structure of the whole. But the finite will never be able to 

1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Collected Works, 
Vol. 8, pars. 283-342. [Originally published as part of "Die 
Erdbedingtheit der Psyche," in the symposium Mensch und Erde, 
edited by Count Hermann Keyserling (Darmstadt, 1927). (The 
other part became the essay "Seele und Erde," which is now 
published as "Mind and Earth" in Vol. 10 of the Collected 
Works.) The present work, constituting about the first half of 
the 1927 publication, was published as "Die Struktur der Seele," 
Europaische Revue (Berlin), IV (1928), 1 and 2. It was later 
revised and expanded in Seelenprobleme der Gegenwart (Psycho- 
logische Abhandlungcn, III; Zurich, 1931), and this version is 
translated here. — Editors of The Collected Works.] 


24 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

grasp the infinite. Although the world of psychic phe- 
nomena is only a part of the world as a whole, it may seem 
easier to grasp precisely for that reason. But one would 
be forgetting that the psyche is the only phenomenon that 
is given to us immediately and, therefore, is the sine qua 
non of all experience. 

The only things we experience immediately are the con- 
tents of consciousness. In saying this I am not attempting 
to reduce the ''world" to our "idea" of it. What I am 
trying to emphasize could be expressed from another point 
of view by saying: Life is a function of the carbon atom. 
This analogy reveals the limitations of the specialist point 
of view, to which I succumb as soon as I attempt to say 
anything explanatory about the world, or even a part of it. 

My point of view is naturally a psychological one, and 
moreover that of a practising psychologist whose task it is 
to find the quickest road through the chaotic muddle of 
complicated psychic states. This view must needs be very 
different from that of the psychologist who can study an 
isolated psychic process at his leisure, in the quiet of his 
laboratory. The difference is roughly that between a surgeon 
and an histologist. I also differ from the metaphysician, 
who feels he has to say how things are "in themselves," and 
whether they are absolute or not. My subject lies wholly 
within the bounds of experience. 

My prime need is to grasp complicated conditions and be 
able to talk about them. I must be able to differentiate 
between various groups of psychic facts. The distinctions 
so made must not be arbitrary, since I have to reach an 
understanding with my patient. I therefore have to rely on 
simple schemata which on the one hand satisfactorily reflect 
the empirical facts, and on the other hand link up with 
what is generally known and so finds acceptance. 

If we now set out to classify the contents of conscious- 
ness, we shall begin, according to tradition, with the prop- 
osition: Nihil est in intellectu quod non antea fuerit in 

The Structure of the Psyche : 25 

Consciousness seems to stream into us from outside in 
the form of sense-perceptions. We see, hear, taste, and 
smell the world, and so arc conscious of the world. Sense- 
perceptions tell us that something is. But they do not tell 
us what it is. This is told us not by the process of percep- 
tion but by the process of apperception, and this has a 
highly complex structure. Not that sense-perception is 
anything simple; only, its complex nature is not so much 
psychic as physiological. The complexity of apperception, 
on the other hand, is psychic. We can detect in it the co- 
operation of a number of psychic processes. Supposing we 
hear a noise whose nature seems to us unknown. After a 
while it becomes clear to us that the peculiar noise must 
come from air-bubbles rising in the pipes of the central 
heating: we have recognized the noise. This recognition 
derives from a process which we call thinking. Thinking 
tells us what a thing is. 

I have just called the noise "peculiar." When I character- 
ize something as "peculiar," I am referring to the special 
feeling-tone which that thing has. The feeling-tone implies 
an evaluation. 

The process of recognition can be conceived in essence 
as comparison and differentiation with the help of mem- 
ory. When I see a fire, for instance, the light-stimulus 
conveys to me the idea "fire." As there are countless 
memory-images of fire lying ready in my memory, these 
images enter into combination with the fire-image I have 
just received, and the process of comparing it with and 
differentiating it from these memory-images produces the 
recognition; that is to say, I finally establish in my mind 
the peculiarity of this particular image. In ordinary speech 
this process is called thinking. 

The process of evaluation is different. The fire I see 
arouses emotional reactions of a pleasant or unpleasant 
nature, and the memory-images thus stimulated bring with 
them concomitant emotional phenomena which are known 
as feeling-tones. In this way an object appears to us as 

26 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

pleasant, desirable, and beautiful, or as unpleasant, dis- 
gusting, ugly, and so on. In ordinary speech this process is 
called feeling. 

The intuitive process is neither one of sense-perception, 
nor of thinking, nor yet of feeling, although language 
shows a regrettable lack of discrimination in this respect. 
One person will exclaim: "I can see the whole house burn- 
ing down already!" Another will say: "It is as certain as 
two and two make four that there will be a disaster if a 
fire breaks out here." A third will say: "I have the feeling 
that this fire will lead to catastrophe." According to their 
respective temperaments, the one speaks of his intuition 
as a distinct seeing, that is, he makes a sense-perception 
of it. The other designates it as thinking: "One has only 
to reflect, and then it is quite clear what the consequences 
will be." The third, under the stress of emotion, calls his 
intuition a process of feeling. But intuition, as I conceive 
it, is one of the basic functions of the psyche, namely, 
perception of the possibilities inherent in a situation. It is 
probably due to the insufficient development of language 
that "feeling," "sensation," and "intuition" are still con- 
fused in German, while sentiment and sensation in French, 
and "feeling" and "sensation" in English, are absolutely 
distinct, in contrast to sentiment and "feeling," which are 
sometimes used as auxiliary words for "intuition." Recently, 
however, "intuition" has begun to be commonly used in 
linghsh speech. 

As further contents of consciousness, we can also distin- 
guish volitional processes and instinctual processes. The 
former are defined as directed^ impulses, based on appercep- 
tion, which are at the disposal of so-called free will. The 
latter are impulses originating in the unconscious or di- 
rectly in the body and are characterized by lack of freedom 
and by compulsiveness. 

Apperceptive processes may be either directed or un- 
directed. In the former case we speak of "attention," in the 
latter case of "fantasy" or "dreaming." The directed proc- 

The Structure of the Psyche : 27 

esses are rational, the undirected irrational. To these last- 
named processes we must add — as the seventh category 
of contents of consciousness — dreams. In some respects 
dreams are like conscious fantasies in that they have an 
undirected, irrational character. But they differ inasmuch 
as their cause, course, and aim are, at first, very obscure. 
I accord them the dignity of coming into the category of 
conscious contents because they are the most important 
and most obvious results of unconscious psychic processes 
obtruding themselves upon consciousness. These seven 
categories probably give a somewhat superficial survey of 
the contents of consciousness, but they are sufficient for 
our purpose. 

There are, as we know, certain views which would 
restrict everything psychic to consciousness, as being iden- 
tical with it. I do not believe this is sufficient. If we assume 
that there is anything at all beyond our sense-perception, 
then we are entitled to speak of psychic elements whose 
existence is only indirectly accessible to us. For anybody 
acquainted with the psychology of hypnotism and somnam- 
bulism, it is a well-known fact that though an artificially 
or morbidly restricted consciousness of this kind does not 
contain certain ideas, it nevertheless behaves exactly as if 
it did. For instance, there was an hysterically deaf patient 
who was fond of singing. One day the doctor unobtrusively 
sat down at the piano and accompanied the next verse in 
another key, whereupon the patient went on singing in the 
new key. Another patient always fell into "hystero- 
epileptic" convulsions at the sight of a naked flame. He 
had a markedly restricted field of vision, that is, he suf- 
fered from peripheral blindness (having what is known 
as a "tubular" field of vision). If one now held a lighted 
match in the blind zone, the attack followed just as if he 
had seen the flame. In the symptomatology of such states 
there are innumerable cases of this kind, where with the 
best will in the world one can only say that these people 
perceive, think, feel, remember, decide, and act uncon- 

2S : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

sciously, doing unconsciously what others do consciously. 

These processes occur regardless of whether consciousness 

registers them or not. 

These unconscious psychic processes also include the not 
inconsiderable labour of composition that goes into a 
dream. Though sleep is a state in which consciousness is 
greatly restricted, the psyche by no means ceases to exist 
and to act. Consciousness has merely withdrawn from it 
and, lacking any objects to hold its attention, lapsed into a 
state of comparative unconsciousness. But psychic life obvi- 
ously goes on, just as there is unconscious psychic activity 
during the waking state. Evidence for this is not difficult 
to find; indeed, Freud has described this particular field 
of experience in The Psycho pathology of Everyday Life, 
He shows that our conscious intentions and actions are 
often frustrated by unconscious processes whose very exist- 
ence is a continual surprise to us. We make slips of the 
tongue and slips in writing and unconsciously do things 
that betray our most closely guarded secrets — which are 
sometimes unknown even to ourselves. "Lingua lapsa 
verum dicit," says an old proverb. These phenomena can 
also be demonstrated experimentally by the association 
tests, which are very useful for finding out things that 
people cannot or will not speak about. 

But the classic examples of unconscious psychic activity 
arc to be found in pathological states. Almost the whole 
symptomatology of hysteria, of the compulsion neuroses, 
of phobias, and very largely of schizophrenia, the common- 
est mental illness, has its roots in unconscious psychic 
activity. We are therefore fully justified in speaking of an 
unconscious psyche. It is not directly accessible to observa- 
tion—otherwise it would not be unconscious — but can only 
be inferred. Our inferences can never go beyond: "it is as 

The unconscious, then, is part of the psyche. Can we 
now, on the analogy of the different contents of con- 
sciousness, also speak of contents of the unconscious? 

The Structure of the Psyche : 29 

That would be postulating another consciousness, so to 
speak, in the unconscious. I will not go into this delicate 
question here, since I have discussed it in another connec- 
tion, but will confine myself to inquiring whether we can 
differentiate anything in the unconscious or not. This 
question can only be answered empirically, that is, by the 
counter-question whether there are any plausible grounds 
for such a differentiation. 

To my mind there is no doubt that all the activities ordi- 
narily taking place in consciousness can also proceed in the 
unconscious. There are numerous instances of an intel- 
lectual problem, unsolved in the waking state, being solved 
in a dream. I know, for instance, of an expert accountant 
who had tried in vain for many days to clear up a fraudu- 
lent bankruptcy. One day he had worked on it till midnight, 
without success, and then went to bed. At three in the 
morning his wife heard him get up and go into his study. 
She followed, and saw him industriously making notes 
at his desk. After about a quarter of an hour he came 
back. In the morning he remembered nothing. He began 
working again and discovered, in his own handwriting, a 
number of notes which straightened out the whole tangle 
finally and completely. 

In my practical work I have been dealing with dreams 
for more than twenty years. Over and over again I have 
seen how thoughts that were not thought and feelings that 
were not felt by day afterwards appeared in dreams, and 
in this way reached consciousness indirectly. The dream 
as such is undoubtedly a content of consciousness, other- 
wise it could not be an object of immediate experience. But 
in so far as it brings up material that was unconscious be- 
fore, we are forced to assume that these contents already 
had some kind of psychic existence in an unconscious state 
and appeared to the "remnant*' of consciousness only in 
the dream. The dream belongs to the normal contents of 
the psyche and may be regarded as a resultant of uncon- 
scious processes obtruding on consciousness. 

30 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

Now if, with these experiences in mind, we are driven 
to asume that all the categories of conscious contents can 
on occasion also be unconscious, and can act on the con- 
scious mind as unconscious processes, we find ourselves 
faced with the somewhat unexpected question whether 
the unconscious has dreams too. In other words, are there 
resultants of still deeper and — if that be possible — still 
more unconscious processes which infiltrate into the dark 
regions of the psyche? I should have to dismiss this para- 
doxical question as altogether too adventurous were there 
not, in fact, grounds which bring such an hypothesis 
within the realm of possibility. 

We must first see what sort of evidence is required to 
prove that the unconscious has dreams. If we wish to prove 
that dreams appear as contents of consciousness, we have 
simply to show that there are certain contents which, in 
character and meaning, are strange and not to be compared 
with the other contents which can be rationally explained 
and understood. If we are to show that the unconscious 
also has dreams, we must treat its contents in a similar way. 
It will be simplest if I give a practical example: 

The case is that of an officer, twenty-seven years of age. 
He was suffering from severe attacks of pain in the region 
of the heart and from a choking sensation in the threat, 
as though a lump were stuck there. He also had piercing 
pains in the left heel. There was nothing organically the 
matter with him. The attacks had begun about two months 
previously, and the patient had been exempted from mili- 
tary service on account of his occasional inability to walk. 
Various cures had availed nothing. Close investigation into 
the previous history of his illness gave no clue, and he 
himself had no idea what the cause might be. He gave the 
impression of having a cheerful, rather light-hearted nature, 
perhaps a bit on the tough side, as though saying theatri- 
cally: " You can't keep us down." As the anamnesis revealed 
nothing, 1 asked about his dreams. It at once became 
apparent what the cause was. Just before the beginning of 

The Structure of the Psyche : 31 

his neurosis the girl with whom he was in love jilted him 
and got engaged to another man. In talking to me he dis- 
missed this whole story as irrelevant — "a stupid girl, if 
she doesn't want me it's easy enough to get another one. 
A man like me isn't upset by a thing like that." That was 
the way he treated his disappointment and his real grief. 
But now the affects came to the surface. The pains in his 
heart soon disappeared, and the lump in his throat vanished 
after a few bouts of weeping. "Heartache" is a poeticism, 
but here it became an actual fact because his pride would 
not allow him to suffer the pain in his soul. The "lump in 
the throat," the so-called globus hystericus, comes, as 
everyone knows, from swallowed tears. His consciousness 
had simply withdrawn from contents that were too painful 
to him, and these, left to themselves, could reach con- 
sciousness only indirectly, as symptoms. All this was a 
rationally understandable and perfectly intelligible process, 
which could just as well have passed off consciously, had 
it not been for his masculine pride. 

But now for the third symptom. The pains in the heel 
did not disappear. They do not belong in the picture we 
have just sketched, for the heart is in no way connected 
with the heel, nor does one express sorrow through the 
heel. From the rational point of view, one cannot see why 
the other two syndromes should not have sufficed. The- 
oretically, it would have been entirely satisfactory if the 
conscious realization of the repressed psychic pain had 
resulted in normal grief and hence in a cure. 

As I could get no clue to the heel symptom from the 
patient's conscious mind, I turned once more to the pre- 
vious method — to the dreams. The patient now had a 
dream in which he was bitten in the heel by a snake and 
instantly paralyzed. This dream plainly offered an inter- 
pretation of the heel symptom. His heel hurt him because 
he had been bitten there by a snake. This is a very strange 
content, and one can make nothing of it rationally. We 
could understand at once why his heart ached, but that 

J2 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

his heel should ache too is beyond all rational expectation. 
The patient was completely mystified. 

Here, then, we have a content that propels itself into 
the unconscious zone in a singular manner, and probably 
derives from some deeper layer that cannot be fathomed 
rationally. The nearest analogy to this dream is obviously 
the neurosis itself. When the girl jilted him, she gave 
him a wound that paralyzed him and made him ill. Further 
analysis of the dream elicited something from his previous 
history that now became clear to the patient for the first 
time: He had been the darling of a somewhat hysterical 
mother. She had pitied him, admired him, pampered him 
so much that he never got along properly at school because 
he was too girlish. Later he suddenly swung over to the 
masculine side and went into the army, where he was able 
to hide his inner weakness by a display of "toughness." 
Thus, in a sense, his mother too had lamed him. 

We are evidently dealing here with that same old serpent 
who had been the special friend of Eve. "And I will put 
enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy 
seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt 
bruise his heel," runs the saying in Genesis, an echo of the 
much more ancient Egyptian hymn that used to be recited 
or chanted for the cure of snake-bite: 

The mouth of the god trembled with age, 

His spittle fell to the earth, 

And what he spat forth fell upon the ground, 

1 hen Isis kneaded it with her hands 

Together with the earth which was there; 

And she made it like a spear. 

She wound not the living snake about her face, 

But threw it in a coil upon the path 

Where the great god was wont to wander 

At his pleasure through his two kingdoms. 

The noble god stepped forth in splendour, 

1 he gods serving Pharaoh bore him company, 

And he went forth as was each day his wont. 

Then the noble worm stung him . . '. 

The Structure of the Psyche : 33 

His jawbones chattered, 
He trembled in all his limbs, 
And the poison invaded his flesh 
As the Nile invades his territory. 2 

The patient's conscious knowledge of the Bible was at a 
lamentable minimum. Probably he had once heard of the 
serpent biting the heel and then quickly forgotten it. But 
something deep in his unconscious heard it and did not 
forget; it remembered this story at a suitable opportunity. 
This part of the unconscious evidently likes to express it- 
self mythologically, because this way of expression is in 
keeping with its nature. 

But to what kind of mentality does the symbolical or 
metaphorical way of expression correspond? It corresponds 
to the mentality of the primitive, whose language possesses 
no abstractions but only natural and "unnatural" analogies. 
This primeval mentality is as foreign to the psyche that 
produced the heartache and the lump in the throat as a 
brontosaurus is to a racehorse. The dream of the snake 
reveals a fragment of psychic activity that has nothing 
whatever to do with the dreamer as a modern individual. 
It functions at a deeper level, so to speak, and only the 
results of this activity rise up into the upper layer where 
the repressed affects lie, as foreign to them as a dream is 
to waking consciousness. Just as some kind of analytical 
technique is needed to understand a dream, so a knowledge 
of mythology is needed in order to grasp the meaning of 
a content deriving from the deeper levels of the psyche. 

The snake-motif was certainly not an individual acquisi- 
tion of the dreamer, for snake-dreams are very common 
even among city-dwellers who have probably never seen 
a real snake. 

It might be objected that the snake in the dream is 
nothing but a concretized figure of speech. We say of cer- 
tain women that they arc treacherous as snakes, wily as 

2 Adolf Erman, Life in Ancient Egypt, translated by H. M.Tirard 
(London, 1894), pp. 265-67, modified. 

34 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

serpents; wc speak of the snake of temptation, etc. This 
objection does not seem to me to hold good in the present 
instance, though it would be difficult to prove this because 
the snake is in fact a common figure of speech. A more 
certain proof would be possible only if we succeeded in 
finding a case where the mythological symbolism is neither 
a common figure of speech nor an instance of cryptomnesia 
— that is to say, where the dreamer had not read, seen, or 
heard the motif somewhere, and then forgotten it and 
remembered it unconsciously. This proof seems to me of 
great importance, since it would show that the rationally 
explicable unconscious, which consists of material that 
has been made unconscious artificially, as it were, is only 
a top layer, and that underneath is an absolute unconscious 
which has nothing to do with our personal experience. 
This absolute unconscious would then be a psychic activity 
which goes on independently of the conscious mind and is 
not dependent even on the upper layers of the unconscious, 
untouched — and perhaps untouchable — by personal ex- 
perience. It would be a kind of supra-individual psychic 
activity, a collective unconscious, as I have called it, as 
distinct from a superficial, relative, or personal uncon- 

But before we go in search of this proof, I would like, 
for the sake of completeness, to make a few more remarks 
about the snake-dream. It seems as if this hypothetical 
deeper layer of the unconscious — the collective uncon- 
scious, as I shall now call it— had translated the pa- 
tient's experiences with women into the snake-bite dream 
and thus turned them into a regular mythological motif. 
The reason— or rather, the purpose — of this is at first 
somewhat obscure. But if we remember the fundamental 
principle that the symptomatology of an illness is at the 
same time a natural attempt at healing— the heartaches, 
for example, being an attempt to produce an emotional 
outburst— then we must regard the heel symptom as an 
attempt at healing too. As the dream shows, not only the 
recent disappointment in love, but all other disappoint- 

The Structure of the Psyche : 35 

ments, in school and elsewhere, are raised by this symptom 
to the level of a mythological event, as though this would 
in some way help the patient. 

This may strike us as flatly incredible. But the ancient 
Egyptian priest-physicians, who intoned the hymn to the 
Isis-serpent over the snake-bite, did not find this theory 
at all incredible; and not only they, but the whole world 
believed, as the primitive today still believes, in magic by 
analogy or "sympathetic magic." 

We are concerned here, then, with the psychological 
phenomenon that lies at the root of magic by analogy. We 
should not think that this is an ancient superstition which 
we have long since outgrown. If you read the Latin text 
of the Mass carefully, you will constantly come upon the 
famous "sicut"; this always introduces an analogy by 
means of which a change is to be produced. Another strik- 
ing example of analogy is the making of fire on Holy Satur- 
day. In former times, the new fire was struck from the 
stone, and still earlier it was obtained by boring into a 
piece of wood, which was the prerogative of the Church. 
Therefore in the prayer of the priest it is said: 4fc Deus, qui 
per Filium tuum, angularem scilicet lapidem, claritatis tuae 
fidelibus ignem contulisti productum ex silice, nostris pro- 
futurum usibus, novum hunc ignem sanctifica." — "O God, 
who through thy Son, who is called the cornerstone, hast 
brought the fire of thy light to the faithful, make holy 
for our future use this new fire struck from the firestone." 
By the analogy of Christ with the cornerstone, the firestone 
is raised to the level of Christ himself, who again kindles 
a new fire. 

The rationalist may laugh at this. But something deep 
in us is stirred, and not in us alone but in millions of 
Christian men and women, though we may call it only a 
feeling for beauty. What is stirred in us is that faraway 
background, those immemorial patterns of the human 
mind, which we have not acquired but have inherited from 
the dim ages of the past. 

If this supra-individual psyche exists, everything that is 

j6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

translated into its picture-language would be depersonal- 
ized, and if this became conscious would appear to us 
sub specie aetemitatis. Not as my sorrow, but as the sor- 
row of the world; not a personal isolating pain, but a pain 
without bitterness that unites all humanity. The healing 
effect of this needs no proof. 

But as to whether this supra-individual psychic activity 
actually exists, I have so far given no proof that satisfies all 
the requirements. I should now like to do this once more 
in the form of an example. The case is that of a man in 
his thirties, who was suffering from a paranoid form of 
schizophrenia. He became ill in his early twenties. He had 
always presented a strange mixture of intelligence, wrong- 
hcadedness, and fantastic ideas. He was an ordinary clerk, 
employed in a consulate. Evidently as a compensation for 
his very modest existence he was seized with megalomania 
and believed himself to be the Saviour. He suffered from 
frequent hallucinations and was at times very much dis- 
turbed. In his quiet periods he was allowed to go unat- 
tended in the corridor. One day I came across him there, 
blinking through the window up at the sun, and moving 
his head from side to side in a curious manner. He took 
me by the arm and said he wanted to show me something. 
He said I must look at the sun with eyes half shut, and 
then I could see the sun's phallus. If I moved my head 
from side to side the sun-phallus would move too, and 
that was the origin of the wind. 

I made this observation about 1906. In the course of 
the year 19 10, when I was engrossed in mythological stud- 
ies, a book of Dicterichfs came into my hands. It was part 
of the so-called Paris magic papyrus and was thought by 
Dicterich to be a liturgy of the Mithraic cult.-'* It consisted 
of a series of instructions, invocations, and visions. One of 

MAIbrccht Dicterich, Erne Mithraslitwgie (London, 1903; 2nd ed., 
1910), pp. 6-7. As ihe author subsequently learned, the 1910 edi- 
tion was actually the second, there having been a first edition in 
1903. The patient had, however, been committed some years before 

The Structure of the Psyche : 37 

these visions is described in the following words: "And 
likewise the so-called tube, the origin of the ministering 
wind. For you will see hanging down from the disc of the 
sun something that looks like a tube. And towards the re- 
gions westward it is as though there were an infinite east 
wind. But if the other wind should prevail towards the 
regions of the east, you will in like manner see the vision 
veering in that direction." The Greek word for "tube," 
avAos, means a wind-instrument, and the combination 
avAo<? Tragi's in Homer means "a thick jet of blood." So 
evidently a stream of wind is blowing through the tube 
out of the sun. 

The vision of my patient in 1906, and the Greek text 
first edited in 19 10, should be sufficiently far apart to rule 
out the possibility of cryptomnesia on his side and of 
thought-transference on mine. The obvious parallelism of 
the two visions cannot be disputed, though one might ob- 
ject that the similarity is purely fortuitous. In that case we 
should expect the vision to have no connections with 
analogous ideas, nor any inner meaning. But this expecta- 
tion is not fulfilled, for in certain medieval paintings this 
tube is actually depicted as a sort of hose-pipe reaching 
down from heaven under the robe of Mary. In it the Holy 
Ghost flics down in the form of a dove to impregnate the 
Virgin. As we know from the miracle of Pentecost, the 
Holy Ghost was originally conceived as a mighty rushing 
wind, the irvivjxa, "the wind that bloweth where it listeth." 
In a Latin text we read: "Animo descensus per orbem 
solis tribuitur" (They say that the spirit descends through 
the disc of the sun). This conception is common to the 
whole of late classical and medieval philosophy. 

I cannot, therefore, discover anything fortuitous in these 
visions, but simply the revival of possibilities of ideas that 
have always existed, that can be found again in the most 
diverse minds and in all epochs, and arc therefore not to 
be mistaken for inherited ideas. 

I have purposely gone into the details of this case in 

j8 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

order to give you a concrete picture of that deeper psychic 
activity which I call the collective unconscious. Summing 
up, I would like to emphasize that we must distinguish 
three psychic levels; (i) consciousness, (2) the personal 
unconscious, and (3) the collective unconscious. The per- 
sonal unconscious consists firstly of all those contents that 
became unconscious either because they lost their intensity 
and were forgotten or because consciousness was with- 
drawn from them (repression), and secondly of contents, 
some of them sense-impressions, which never had sufficient 
intensity to reach consciousness but have somehow entered 
the psyche. The collective unconscious, however, as the 
ancestral heritage of possibilities of representation, is not 
individual but common to all men, and perhaps even to 
all animals, and is the true basis of the individual psyche. 

This whole psychic organism corresponds exactly to the 
body, which, though individually varied, is in all essential 
features the specifically human body which all men have, 
In its development and structure, it still preserves elements 
that connect it with the invertebrates and ultimately with 
the protozoa. Theoretically it should be possible to "peel" 
the collective unconscious, layer by layer, until we came 
to the psychology of the worm, and even of the amoeba. 

We are all agreed that it would be quite impossible to 
understand the living organism apart from its relation to 
the environment. There are countless biological facts that 
can only be explained as reactions to environmental con- 
ditions, e.g., the blindness of Proteus anguinus, the pecu- 
liarities of intestinal parasites, the anatomy of vertebrates 
that have reverted to aquatic life. 

The same is true of the psyche. Its peculiar organization 
must be intimately connected with environmental condi- 
tions. We should expect consciousness to react and adapt 
itself to the present, because it is that part of the psyche 
which is concerned chiefly with events of the moment. 
But from the collective unconscious, as a timeless and 
universal psyche, we should expect reactions to universal 

The Structure of the Psyche : 39 

and constant conditions, whether psychological, physiolog- 
ical, or physical, 

The collective unconscious — so far as we can say any^ 
thing about it at all — appears to consist of mythological 
motifs or primordial images, for which reason the myths 
of all nations are its real exponents. In fact, the whole of 
mythology could be taken as a sort of projection of the 
collective unconscious. We can see this most clearly if we 
look at the heavenly constellations, whose originally chaotic 
forms were organized through the projection of images. 
This explains the influence of the stars as asserted by as- 
trologers. These influences are nothing but unconscious, 
introspective perceptions of the activity of the collective 
unconscious. Just as the constellations were projected into 
the heavens, similar figures were projected into legends 
and fairy tales or upon historical persons. We can there- 
fore study the collective unconscious in two ways, either 
in mythology or in the analysis of the individual. As I 
cannot make the latter material available here, I must con- 
fine myself to mythology. This is such a wide field that 
we can select from it only a few types. Similarly, environ- 
mental conditions are endlessly varied, so here too only 
a few of the more typical can be discussed. 

Just as the living body with its special characteristics is 
a system of functions for adapting to environmental con- 
ditions, so the psyche must exhibit organs or functional 
systems that correspond to regular physical events. By this 
I do not mean sense-functions dependent on organs, but 
rather a sort of psychic parallel to regular physical occur- 
rences. To take an example, the daily course of the sun and 
the regular alternation of day and night must have im- 
printed themselves on the psyche in the form of an image 
from primordial times. We cannot demonstrate the exist- 
ence of this image, but we find instead more or less fan- 
tastic analogies of the physical process. Every morning a 
divine hero is born from the sea and mounts the chariot 
of the sun. In the West a Great Mother awaits him, and 

40 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

he is devoured by her in the evening. In the belly of a 
dragon he traverses the depths of the midnight sea. After 
a frightful combat with the serpent of night he is born 
again in the morning. 

This conglomerate myth undoubtedly contains a re- 
flection of the physical process. Indeed this is so obvious 
that many investigators assume that primitives invent such 
myths merely to explain physical processes. There can be 
no doubt that science and philosophy have grown from 
this matrix, but that primitives think up such things merely 
from a need for explanation, as a sort of physical or as- 
tronomical theory, seems to me highly improbable. 

What we can safely say about mythical images is that 
the physical process imprinted itself on the psyche in this 
fantastic, distorted form and was preserved there, so that 
the unconscious still reproduces similar images today. 
Naturally the question now arises: why does the psyche 
not register the actual process, instead of mere fantasies 
about the physical process? 

If you can put yourself in the mind of the primitive, you 
will at once understand why this is so. He lives in such 
"participation mystique" with his world, as Levy-Bruhl 
calls it, that there is nothing like that absolute distinction 
between subject and object which exists in our minds. 
What happens outside also happens in him, and what hap- 
pens in him also happens outside. I witnessed a very fine 
example of this when I was with the Elgonyi, a primitive 
tribe living on Mount Elgon, in East Africa. At sunrise 
they spit on their hands and then hold the palms towards 
the sun as it comes over the horizon. "We are happy that 
the night is past," they say. Since the word for sun, adhista, 
also means God, I asked: "Is the sun God?" They said 
"No" to this and laughed, as if I had said something es- 
pecially stupid. As the sun was just then high in the heav- 
ens, I pointed to it and asked: "When the sun is there you 
say it is not God, but when it is in the east you say it is 
God. How is that?" There was an embarrassed silence till 

The Structure of the Psyche : 41 

an old chief began to explain. "It is so," he said. "When 
the sun is up there it is not God, but when it rises, that is 
God [or: then it is God]." To the primitive mind it is im- 
material which of these two versions is correct. Sunrise 
and his own feeling of deliverance are for him the same 
divine experience, just as night and his fear are the same 
thing. Naturally his emotions are more important to him 
than physics; therefore what he registers is his emotional 
fantasies. For him night means snakes and the cold breath 
of. spirits, whereas morning means the birth of a beautiful 

There are mythological theories that explain everything 
as coming from the sun and lunar theories that do the 
same for the moon. This is due to the simple fact that 
there are countless myths about the moon, among them a 
whole host in which the moon is the wife of the sun. The 
moon is the changing experience of the night, and thus 
coincides with the primitive's sexual experience of woman, 
who for him is also the experience of the night. But the 
moon can equally well be the injured brother of the sun, 
for at night afTect-laden and evil thoughts of power and 
revenge may disturb sleep. The moon, too, is a disturber of 
sleep, and is also the abode of departed souls, for at night 
the dead return in dreams and the phantoms of the past 
terrify the sleepless. Thus the moon also signifies madness 
('lunacy"). It is such experiences as these that have im- 
pressed themselves on the mind, rather than the changing 
image of the moon. 

It is not storms, not thunder and lightning, not rain and 
cloud that remain as images in the psyche, but the fantasies 
caused by the affects they arouse. I once experienced a 
violent earthquake, and my first, immediate feeling was 
that 1 no longer stood on the solid and familiar earth, but 
on the skin of a gigantic animal that was heaving under 
my feet. It was this image that impressed itself on me, 
not the physical fact. Man's curses against devastating 
thunderstorms, his terror of the unchained elements — 

42 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

these affects anthropomorphize the passion of nature, and 
the purely physical element becomes an angry god, 

Like the physical conditions of his environment, the 
physiological conditions, glandular secretions, etc., also can 
arouse fantasies charged with affect. Sexuality appears as 
a god of fertility, as a fiercely sensual, feminine daemon, 
as the devil himself with Dionysian goat's legs and obscene 
gestures, or as a terrifying serpent that squeezes its victims 
to death. 

Hunger makes food into gods. Certain Mexican tribes 
even give their food-gods an annual holiday to allow them 
to recuperate, and during this time the staple food is not 
eaten. The ancient Pharaohs were worshipped as eaters of 
gods. Osiris is the wheat, the son of the earth,, and to this 
day the Host must be made of wheat-meal, i.e., a god to 
be eaten, as also was Iacchos, the mysterious god of the 
Eleusinian mysteries. The bull of Mithras is the edible 
fruitfulness of the earth. 

The psychological conditions of the environment nat- 
urally leave similar mythical traces behind them. Danger- 
ous situations, be they dangers to the body or to the soul, 
arouse affect-laden fantasies, and, in so far as such situa- 
tions typically repeat themselves, they give rise to arche* 
types, as 1 have termed myth-motifs in general. 

Dragons make their lairs by watercourses, preferably 
near a ford or some such dangerous crossing; jinn and 
other devils arc to be found in waterless deserts or in 
dangerous gorges; spirits of the dead haunt the eerie thick- 
ets of the bamboo forest; treacherous nixies and sea-ser- 
pents live in the depths of the ocean and its whirlpools. 
Mighty ancestor-spirits or gods dwell in the man of im- 
portance; deadly fetish-power resides in anyone strange 
or extraordinary. Sickness and death are never due to 
natural causes, but arc invariably caused by spirits, witches, 
or wizards. Even the weapon that has killed a man is mana, 
endowed with extraordinary power. 

How is it then, you may ask, with the most ordinary 

The Structure of the Psyche : 43 

everyday events, with immediate realities like husband, 
wife, father, mother, child? These ordinary everyday facts, 
which are eternally repeated, create the mightiest arche- 
types of all, whose ceaseless activity is everywhere appar^ 
ent even in a rationalistic age like ours. Let us take as an 
example the Christian dogma. The Trinity consists of 
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, who is represented by the 
bird of Astarte, the dove, and who in early Christian times 
was called Sophia and thought of as feminine. The wor- 
ship of Mary in the later Church is an obvious substitute 
for this. Here we have the archetype of the family l v 
imepovpavLy toVo), "in a supracelestial place," as Plato ex- 
presses it, enthroned as a formulation of the ultimate mys- 
tery. Christ is the bridegroom, the Church is the bride, the 
baptismal font is the womb of the Church, as it is still 
called in the text of the Benedictio f otitis. The holy water 
has salt put into it, with the idea of making it like the 
amniotic fluid, or like sea-water. A hieros gamos or sacred 
wedding is performed on Holy Saturday before Easter, 
which 1 have just mentioned, and a burning candle as a 
phallic symbol is plunged three times into the font, in 
order to fertilize it and lend it the power to bear the bap- 
tized child anew (quasimodo gcnitits). The nuina per- 
sonality, the medicine-man, is the pontifex maximus, the 
Papa; the Church is mater ecclesla, the magna mater of 
magical power, and mankind are children in need of help 
and grace. 

The deposit of mankind's whole ancestral experience — 
so rich in emotional imagery — of father, mother, child, 
husband and wife, of the magic personality, of dangers to 
body and soul, has exalted this group of archetypes into 
the supreme regulating principles of religious and even of 
political life, in unconscious recognition of their tremen- 
dous psychic power. 

I have found that a rational understanding of these 
things in no way detracts from their value; on the con- 
trary, it helps us not only to feel but to gain insight into 

44 ' The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

their immense significance. These mighty projections en- 
able the Catholic to experience large tracts of his collective 
unconscious in tangible reality. He has no need to go in 
search of authority, superior power, revelation, or some- 
thing that would link him with the eternal and the timeless. 
These are always present and available for him: there, in 
the Holy of Holies on every altar, dwells the presence of 
God. It is the Protestant and the Jew who have to seek, 
the one because he has, in a manner of speaking, destroyed 
the earthly body of the Deity, the other because he can 
never find it. For both of them the archetypes, which to 
the Catholic world have become a visible and living reality, 
lie in the unconscious. Unfortunately I cannot enter here 
into the remarkable differences of attitude towards the 
unconscious in our culture, but would only point out that 
this question is one of the greatest problems confronting 

That this is so is immediately understandable when we 
consider that the unconscious, as the totality of all arche- 
types, is the deposit of all human experience right back to 
its remotest beginnings. Not, indeed, a dead deposit, a 
sort of abandoned rubbish-heap, but a living system of 
reactions and aptitudes that determine the individual's life 
in invisible ways — all the more effective because invisible. 
It is not just a gigantic historical prejudice, so to speak, an 
a priori historical condition; it is also the source of the 
instincts, for the archetypes are simply the forms which 
the instincts assume. From the living fountain of instinct 
flows everything that is creative; hence the unconscious 
is not merely conditioned by history, but is the very source 
of the creative impulse. It is like Nature herself— prodi- 
giously conservative, and yet transcending her own his- 
torical conditions in her acts of creation. No wonder, then, 
that it has always been a burning question for humanity 
how best to adapt to these invisible determinants. If con- 
sciousness had never split off from the unconscious — an 
eternally repeated event symbolized as the fall of the angels 

The Structure of the Psyche : 45 

and the disobedience of the first parents — this problem 
would never have arisen, any more than would the ques- 
tion of environmental adaptation. 

The existence of an individual consciousness makes man 
aware of the difficulties of his inner as well as his outer 
life. Just as the world about him takes on a friendly or a 
hostile aspect to the eyes of primitive man, so the influ- 
ences of his unconscious seem to him like an opposing 
power, with which he has to come to terms just as with the 
visible world. His countless magical practices serve this 
end. On higher levels of civilization, religion and philoso- 
phy fulfil the same purpose. Whenever such a system of 
adaptation breaks down a general unrest begins to appear, 
and attempts are made to find a suitable new form of re- 
lationship to the unconscious. 

These things seem very remote to our modern, "en- 
lightened" eyes. When I speak of this hinterland of the 
mind, the unconscious, and compare its reality with that 
of the visible world, I often meet with an incredulous 
smile. But then I must ask how many people there are in 
our civilized world who still believe in mana and spirits 
and suchlike theories — in other words, how many millions 
of Christian Scientists and spiritualists are there? I will 
not add to this list of questions. They are merely intended 
to illustrate the fact that the problem of invisible psychic 
determinants is as alive today as ever it was. 

The collective unconscious contains the whole spiritual 
heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain 
structure of every individual. His conscious mind is an 
ephemeral phenomenon that accomplishes all provisional 
adaptations and orientations, for which reason one can 
best compare its function to orientation in space. The 
unconscious, on the other hand, is the source of the in- 
stinctual forces of the psyche and of the forms or cate- 
gories that regulate them, namely the archetypes. All the 
most powerful ideas in history go back to archetypes. This 
is particularly true of religious ideas, but the central con- 

46 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

cepts of science, philosophy, and ethics are no exception 
to this rule. In their present form they are variants of 
archetypal ideas, created by consciously applying and 
adapting these ideas to reality. For it is the function of 
consciousness not only to recognize and assimilate the 
external world through the gateway of the senses, but to 
translate into visible reality the world within us. 


Instinct and the 
Unconscious 1 

The theme of this symposium concerns a problem that is 
of great importance for biology as well as for psychology 
and philosophy. But if we are to discuss the relation be- 
tween instinct and the unconscious, it is essential that we 
start out with a clear definition of our terms. 

With regard to the definition of instinct, I would like to 
stress the significance of the "all-or-none" reaction formu- 
lated by Rivers; indeed, it seems to me that this peculiarity 
of instinctive activity is of special importance for the 

1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Collected Works, 
Vol. 8, pars. 263-282. A contribution to the symposium of the same 
name, presented, in an English translation by C. F. and H. G. 
Baynes, at a joint meeting of the Aristotelian Society, the Mind 
Association, and the British Psychological Society, at Bedford Col- 
lege, London University, July, 19 19. [First published in the British 
Journal of Psychology (General Section) (London), X (1919): I, 
15-26; republished in Contributions to Analytical Psychology (Lon- 
don and New York, 1928). The original ms. was subsequently pub- 
lished as "Instinkl und Unbewusstes" in U her die Energetik der Seele 
(Psychologischc Abhandlungen, II; Zurich, 1928); republished, with 
a short concluding note, in Uher psych ische Energetik und das Wesen 
der Triiume (Zurich, 1948). The Baynes version has been consulted 
in the preparation of the present translation. — Editors of The Col- 
lee ted Works.] 


4S : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

psychological side of the problem. I must naturally con- 
fine myself to this aspect of the question, because I do not 
feel competent to treat the problem of instinct under its 
biological aspect. But when I attempt to give a psycholog- 
ical definition of instinctive activity, I find I cannot rely 
solely on Rivers' criterion of the "all-or-none" reaction, 
and for the following reason: Rivers defines this reaction 
as a process that shows no gradation of intensity in respect 
of the circumstances which provoke it. It is a reaction that 
takes place with its own specific intensity under all cir- 
cumstances and is not proportional to the precipitating 
stimulus. But when we examine the psychological processes 
of consciousness in order to determine whether there are 
any whose intensity is out of all proportion to the stimulus, 
we can easily find a great many of them in everybody, for 
instance disproportionate affects, impressions, exaggerated 
impulses, intentions that go too far, and others of the kind. 
It follows that all these processes cannot possibly be classed 
as instinctive processes, and we must therefore look round 
for another criterion. 

We use the word "instinct" very frequently in ordinary 
speech. We speak of "instinctive actions," meaning by 
that a mode of behaviour of which neither the motive nor 
the aim is fully conscious and which is prompted only by 
obscure inner necessity. This peculiarity has already been 
stressed by an older English writer, Thomas Reid, who 
says: "By instinct, I mean a natural impulse to certain 
actions, without having any end in view, without delibera- 
tion and without any conception of what we do." 2 Thus 
instinctive action is characterized by an unconsciousness 
of the psychological motive behind it, in contrast to the 
strictly conscious processes which are distinguished by the 
conscious continuity of their motives. Instinctive action 
appears to be a more or less abrupt psychic occurrence, a 
sort of interruption of the continuity of consciousness. On 

2 Thomas Rcicl, Essays on the Active Powers of Man (Edinburgh, 
1788), p. 103. 

Instinct and the Unconscious : 49 

this account, it is felt as an inner necessity — which is, in 
fact, the definition of instinct given by Kant. 3 

Accordingly, instinctive activity would have to be in- 
cluded among the specifically unconscious processes, which 
are accessible to consciousness only through their results. 
But were we to rest content with this conception of in- 
stinct, we should soon discover its insufficiency: it merely 
marks off instinct from the conscious processes and char- 
acterizes it as unconscious. If, on the other hand, we survey 
the unconscious processes as a whole, we find it impossible 
to class them all as instinctive, even though no differentia- 
tion is made between them in ordinary speech. If you 
suddenly meet a snake and get a violent fright, you can 
legitimately call this impulse instinctive because it is no 
different from the instinctive fear of snakes in monkeys. It 
is just the uniformity of the phenomenon and the regularity 
of its recurrence which are the most characteristic qualities 
of instinctive action. As Lloyd Morgan aptly remarks, it 
would be as uninteresting to bet on an instinctive reaction 
as on the rising of the sun tomorrow. On the other hand, 
it may also happen that someone is regularly seized with 
fright whenever he meets a perfectly harmless hen. Al- 
though the mechanism of fright in this case is just as much 
an unconscious impulse as the instinct, we must neverthe- 
less distinguish between the two processes. In the former 
case the fear of snakes is a purposive process of general 
occurrence; the latter, when habitual, is a phobia and not 
an instinct, since it occurs only in isolation and is not a 
general peculiarity. There are many other unconscious 
compulsions of this kind — for instance, obsessive thoughts, 
musical obsessions, sudden ideas and moods, impulsive 
affects, depressions, anxiety states, etc. These phenomena 
are met with in normal as well as abnormal individuals. 
In so far as they occur only in isolation and are not re- 
peated regularly they must be distinguished from instinc- 

3 Immanucl Kant, Anthropologic, in Weike, Ernst Cassircr, cd. 
(Berlin, 1912-22), Vol. Vlll, p. 156. 

$o : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

tive processes, even though their psychological mechanism 
seems to correspond to that of an instinct. They may even 
be characterized by the all-or-none reaction, as can easily 
be observed in pathological cases. In psychopathology there 
arc many such cases where a given stimulus is followed by 
a definite and relatively disproportionate reaction com- 
parable to an instinctive reaction. 

All these processes must be distinguished from instinc- 
tive ones. Only those unconscious processes which are in- 
herited, and occur uniformly and regularly, can be called 
instinctive. At the same time they must show the mark of 
compelling necessity, a reflex character of the kind pointed 
out by Herbert Spencer. Such a process differs from a mere 
sensory-motor reflex only because it is more complicated. 
William James therefore calls instinct, not unjustly, "a 
mere excito-motor impulse, due to the pre-existence of a 
certain 'reflex-arc' in the nerve-centres." 4 Instincts share 
with reflexes their uniformity and regularity as well as the 
unconsciousness of their motivations. 

The question of where instincts come from and how they 
were acquired is extraordinarily complicated. The fact that 
they are invariably inherited does nothing to explain their 
origin; it merely shifts the problem back to our ancestors. 
The view is widely held that instincts originated in individ- 
ual, and then general, acts of will that were frequently re- 
peated. This explanation is plausible in so far as we can 
observe every day how certain laboriously learnt activities 
gradually become automatic through constant practice. But 
if we consider the marvellous instincts to be found in the 
animal world, we must admit that the element of learning 
is sometimes totally absent. In certain cases it is impossible 
to conceive how any learning and practice could ever have 
come about. Let us take as an example the incredibly re- 
fined instinct of propagation in the yucca moth (Pronuba 

♦William James, Principles of Psychology (New York, 1890, 2 
vols.), Vol. II, p. 391. 

Instinct and the Unconscious : 5/ 

yuccasella) , 5 The flowers of the yucca plant open for one 
night only. The moth takes the pollen from one of the 
flowers and kneads it into a little pellet. Then it visits a 
second flower, cuts open the pistil, lays its eggs between 
the ovules and then stuffs the pellet into the funnel-shaped 
opening of the pistil. Only once in its life does the moth 
carry out this complicated operation. 

Such cases are difficult to explain on the hypothesis of 
learning and practice. Hence other ways of explanation, 
deriving from Bergson's philosophy, have recently been 
put forward, laying stress on the factor of intuition. Intui- 
tion is an unconscious process in that its result is the irrup- 
tion into consciousness of an unconscious content, a sud- 
den idea or "hunch." ° It resembles a process of perception, 
but unlike the conscious activity of the senses and intro- 
spection the perception is unconscious. That is why we 
speak of intuition as an "instinctive" act of comprehension. 
It is a process analogous to instinct, with the difference 
that whereas instinct is a purposive impulse to carry out 
some highly complicated action, intuition is the uncon- 
scious, purposive apprehension of a highly complicated 
situation. In a sense, therefore, intuition is the reverse of 
instinct, neither more nor less wonderful than it. But we 
should never forget that what we call complicated or even 
wonderful is not at all wonderful for Nature, but quite 
ordinary. We always tend to project into things our own 
difficulties of understanding and to call them complicated, 
when in reality they are very simple and know nothing of 
our intellectual problems. 

A discussion of the problem of instinct without reference 
to the concept of the unconscious would be incomplete, 
because it is just the instinctive processes which make the 
supplementary concept of the unconscious necessary. I dc- 

r * Anton Kcrncr von Marilaun, The Natural History of Plants, 
translated by F.W. Oliver and others (London, 1902, 2 vols.), 
Vol. II. p. 156. 
" Cf. supra, p. 26; also infra, pp. 220-23, 258-61. 

52 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

fine the unconscious as the totality of all psychic phenom- 
ena that lack the quality of consciousness. These psychic 
contents might fittingly be called "subliminal," on the as- 
sumption that every psychic content must possess a certain 
energy value in order to become conscious at all. The 
lower the value of a conscious content falls, the more 
easily it disappears below the threshold. From this it fol- 
lows that the unconscious is the receptacle of all lost mem- 
ories and of all contents that are still too weak to become 
conscious. These contents arc products of an unconscious 
associative activity which also gives rise to dreams. Be- 
sides these we must include all more or less intentional 
repressions of painful thoughts and feelings. I call the sum 
of all these contents the "personal unconscious." But, over 
and above that, we also find in the unconscious qualities 
that are not individually acquired but are inherited, e.g., 
instincts as impulses to carry out actions from necessity, 
without conscious motivation. In this "deeper" stratum we 
also find the a priori, inborn forms of "intuition," namely 
the archetypes 1 of perception and apprehension, which 
are the necessary a priori determinants of all psychic proc- 
esses. Just as his instincts compel man to a specifically 
human mode of existence, so the archetypes force his ways 
of perception and apprehension into specifically human 
patterns. The instincts and the archetypes together form 
the "collective unconscious." I call it "collective" because, 
unlike the personal unconscious, it is not made up of in- 

" [This is the first occasion on which Jung uses the term "archetype" 
(Archetypus). Previously, in his publications, he had discussed the 
same concept under the term "primordial image" (Urbihl), which 
he derived from Burekhardt (cf. Symbols of Transformation [Col- 
lected Works, Vol. 5], par. 45, n. 45; Two Essays on Analytical 
Psychology [Collected Works, Vol. 7], par. 101). The primordial 
image, be it observed, is here and elsewhere used as the equivalent 
the archetype; ihis has given rise to some confusion and to the 
belief thai Jung's theory of hereditary elements involves the inher- 
itance of representations (ideas or images), a view against which 
Jung repeatedly protests.— Editors of The Collected Works.] See 
discussion supra, in Editor's Introduction, pp. xxxi-xxxiL— J C. 

Instinct and the Unconscious : 53 

dividual and more or less unique contents but of those 
which are universal and of regular occurrence. Instinct is 
an essentially collective, i.e., universal and regularly oc- 
curring phenomenon which has nothing to do with in- 
dividuality. Archetypes have this quality in common with 
the instincts and are likewise collective phenomena. 

In my view the question of instinct cannot be dealt with 
psychologically without considering the archetypes, be- 
cause at bottom they determine one another. It is, how- 
ever, extremely difficult to discuss this problem, as opinions 
about the role of instinct in human psychology are ex- 
traordinarily divided. Thus William James is of the opinion 
that man is swarming with instincts, while others restrict 
them to a very few processes barely distinguishable from 
reflexes, namely to certain movements executed by the 
infant, to particular reactions of its arms and legs, of the 
larynx, the use of the right hand, and the formation of 
syllabized sounds. In my opinion, this restriction goes too 
far, though it is very characteristic of human psychology 
in general. Above all, we should always remember that in 
discussing human instincts we are speaking of ourselves 
and, therefore, are doubtless prejudiced. 

We are in a far better position to observe instincts in 
animals or in primitives than in ourselves. This is due to 
the fact that we have grown accustomed to scrutinizing 
our own actions and to seeking rational explanations for 
them. But it is by no means certain that our explanations 
will hold water, indeed it is highly unlikely. No super- 
human intellect is needed to see through the shallowness 
of many of our rationalizations and to detect the real 
motive, the compelling instinct behind them. As a result 
of our artificial rationalizations it may seem to us that we 
were actuated not by instinct but by conscious motives. 
Naturally I do not mean to say that by careful training 
man has not succeeded in partially converting his instincts 
into acts of the will. Instinct has been domesticated, but 
the basic motive still remains instinct. There is no doubt 

54 .* The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

that we have succeeded in enveloping a large number of 
instincts in rational explanations to the point where we can 
no longer recognize the original motive behind so many 
veils. In this way it seems as though we possessed prac- 
tically no instincts any more. But if we apply the Rivers 
criterion of the disproportionate all-or-none reaction to 
human behaviour, we find innumerable cases where ex- 
aggerated reactions occur. Exaggeration, indeed, is a uni- 
versal human peculiarity, although everybody carefully 
tries to explain his reactions in terms of rational motives. 
There is never any lack of good arguments, but the fact 
of exaggeration remains. And why is it that a man does 
not do or say, give or take, just as much as is needed, or 
reasonable, or justifiable in a given situation, but frequently 
so much more or less? Precisely because an unconscious 
process is released in him that runs its course without the 
aid of reason and therefore falls short of, or exceeds, the 
degree of rational motivation. This phenomenon is so 
uniform and so regular that we can only call it instinctive, 
though no one in this situation likes to admit the instinctive 
nature of his behaviour. I am therefore inclined to believe 
that human behaviour is influenced by instinct to a far 
higher degree than is generally supposed, and that we are 
prone to a great many falsifications of judgment in this 
respect, again as a result of an instinctive exaggeration of 
the rationalistic standpoint. 

Instincts are typical modes of action, and wherever we 
meet with uniform and regularly recurring modes of action 
and reaction we are dealing with instinct, no matter 
whether it is associated with a conscious motive or not. 

Just as it may be asked whether man possesses many 
instincts or only a few, so we must also raise the still un- 
broached question of whether he possesses many or few 
primordial forms, or archetypes, of psychic reaction. Here 
we are faced with the same difficulty I mentioned above: 
we are so accustomed to operating with conventional and 
self-evident concepts that we are no longer conscious of 

Instinct and the Unconscious : 55 

the extent to which they are based on archetypal modes of 
perception. Like the instincts, the primordial images have 
been obscured by the extraordinary differentiation of our 
thinking. Just as certain biological views attribute only a 
few instincts to man, so the theory of cognition reduces 
the archetypes to a few, logically limited categories of 

In Plato, however, an extraordinarily high value is set 
on the archetypes as metaphysical ideas, as "paradigms" 
or models, while real things are held to be only the copies 
of these model ideas. Medieval philosophy, from the time 
of St. Augustine — from whom I have borrowed the idea 
of the archetype 8 — down to Malebranche and Bacon, still 
stands on a Platonic footing in this respect. But in scholas- 
ticism we find the notion that archetypes are natural im- 
ages engraved on the human mind, helping it to form its 
judgments. Thus Herbert of Cherbury says: "Natural in- 
stincts are expressions of those faculties which are found 
in every normal man, through which the Common No- 
tions touching the internal conformity of things, such as 
the cause, means and purpose of things, the good, bad, 
beautiful, pleasing, etc. ... are brought into conformity 
independently of discursive thought." 9 

From Descartes and Malebranche onward, the meta- 
physical value of the "idea" or archetype steadily dete- 
riorated. It became a "thought," an internal condition of 
cognition, as clearly formulated by Spinoza: "By 'idea' 1 
understand a conception of the mind which the mind forms 
by reason of its being a thinking thing." 10 Finally Kant 
reduced the archetypes to a limited number of categories 
of understanding. Schopenhauer carried the process of 

8 The actual term "archetype," however, is to be found in Dionysius 
the Areopagite and in the Corpus Heimcticum. 
u Edward, Baron Herbert of Cherbury, De vciitate, originally pub- 
lished 1624, translated by Meyrick H. Carre, University of Bristol 
Studies, 6 (Bristol, 1937), p. 122. 

'" Cf. Benedict Spinoza, Ethics, translated by Andrew Boyle (London 
and New York, 1934, Everyman's Library), p. 37. 

56 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

simplification still further, while at the same time endow- 
ing the archetypes with an almost Platonic significance. 

In this all-too-summary sketch we can see once again 
that same psychological process at work which disguises 
the instincts under the cloak of rational motivations and 
transforms the archetypes into rational concepts, It is 
hardly possible to recognize the archetype under this guise. 
And yet the way in which man inwardly pictures the world 
is still, despite all differences of detail, as uniform and as 
regular as his instinctive actions. Just as we have been 
compelled to postulate the concept of an instinct deter- 
mining or regulating our conscious actions, so, in order 
to account for the uniformity and regularity of our per- 
ceptions, we must have recourse to the correlated concept 
of a factor determining the mode of apprehension. It is 
this factor which I call the archetype or primordial image. 
The primordial image might suitably be described as the 
instinct's perception of itself, or as the self-portrait of the 
instinct, in exactly the same way as consciousness is an 
inward perception of the objective life-process. Just as 
conscious apprehension gives our actions form and direc- 
tion, so unconscious apprehension through the archetype 
determines the form and direction of instinct. If we call 
instinct "refined," then the "intuition" which brings the 
instinct into play, in other words the apprehension by 
means of the archetype, must be something incredibly 
precise. Thus the yucca moth must carry within it an im- 
age, as it were, of the situation that "triggers off" its in- 
stinct. This image enables it to "recognize" the yucca flower 
and its structure. 

The criterion of the all-or-none reaction proposed by 
Rivers has helped us to discover the operation of instinct 
everywhere in human psychology, and it may be that the 
concept of the primordial image will perform a similar 
service with regard to acts of intuitive apprehension. In- 
tuitional activity can be observed most easily among primi- 
tives. There we constantly meet with certain typical images 

Instinct and the Unconscious : 57 

and motifs which are the foundations of their mythologies. 
These images are autochthonous and occur with great 
regularity; everywhere we find the idea of a magic power 
or substance, of spirits and their doings, of heroes and 
gods and their legends. In the great religions of the world 
we sec the perfection of those images and at the same time 
their progressive incrustation with rational forms. They 
even appear in the exact sciences, as the foundation of 
certain indispensable auxiliary concepts such as energy, 
ether, and the atom. 11 In philosophy, Bergson affords an 
example of the revival of a primordial image with his con- 
ception of "duree creatrice," which can be fcand in Proclus 
and, in its original form, in Hcraclitus. 

Analytical psychology is daily concerned, in the normal 
and sick alike, with disturbances of conscious apprehen- 
sion caused by the admixture of archetypal images. The 
exaggerated actions due to the interference of instinct are 
caused by intuitive modes of apprehension actuated by 
archetypes and all too likely to lead to over-intense and 
often distorted impressions. 

Archetypes are typical modes of apprehension, and 
wherever we meet with uniform and regularly recurring 
modes of apprehension we are dealing with an archetype, 
no matter whether its mythological character is recognized 
or not. 

The collective unconscious consists of the sum of the 
instincts and their correlates, the archetypes. Just as every- 
body possesses instincts, so he also possesses a stock of 
archetypal images. The most striking proof of this is the 
psychopathology of mental disturbances that are character- 
ized by an irruption of the collective unconscious. Such is 
the case in schizophrenia; here we can often observe the 

11 Like the now obsolete concept of ether, energy and the atom are 
primitive intuitions. A primitive form of the one is mana, and of 
the other the atom of Dcmociilus and the "soul-sparks" of the 
Australian aborigines. [Cf. Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 
(Collected Works, Vol. 7), pars. io8f. — Editors of The Collected 

5<S : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

emergence of archaic impulses in conjunction with unmis- 
takable mythological images. 

In my view it is impossible to say which comes first — 
apprehension of the situation, or the impulse to act. It 
seems to me that both are aspects of the same vital activity, 
which we have to think of as two distinct processes simply 
for the purpose of better understanding. 12 

12 In the course of my life I have often reflected on the theme of 
this short essay, and the conclusions I have come to are set down in 
a paper entitled "On the Nature of the Psyche" [in The Structure 
and Dynamics of the Psyche (Collected Works, Vol. 8), pars. 
3431T.1, where the problem of instinct and archetype in its later 
developments is dealt with in considerable detail. The biological 
side of the problem is discussed in Alverdes, "Die Wirksamkeit von 
Archetypen in den Instinkthandlungen der Tiere," Zootogischer 
Anieiger (Leipzig), CXIX: 9/10 (1937), 225-36. 


The Concept of the 
Collective Unconscious 1 

Probably none of my empirical concepts has met with so 
much misunderstanding as the idea of the collective un- 
conscious. In what follows I shall try to give (i) a defini- 
tion of the concept, (2) a description of what it means for 
psychology, (3) an explanation of the method of proof, 
and (4) an example. 2 

1. Definition 

The collective unconscious is a part of the psyche which 
can be negatively distinguished from a personal uncon- 
scious by the fact that it does not, like the latter, owe its 
existence to personal experience and consequently is not 

1 From The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Collected 
Works, Vol. 9.i, pars. 87-110. [Originally given as a lecture to the 
Aberneihian Society at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London, on 
Oct. 19, 1936, and published in the hospital's Journal, XLIV (1936/ 
37), 46-49. 64-66. The present version has been slighly revised by 
the author and edited in terminology. — Editors of The Collected 

2 The example will here be omitted, since it is again that reported 
supra, p. 36, of the man who saw the phallus of the sun. — J.C. 


60 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious 

a personal acquisition. While the personal unconscious is 
made up essentially of contents which have at one time 
been conscious but which have disappeared from conscious- 
ness through having been forgotten or repressed, the con- 
tents of the collective unconscious have never been in 
consciousness, and therefore have never been individually 
acquired, but owe their existence exclusively to heredity. 
Whereas the personal unconscious consists for the most 
part of complexes, the content of the collective uncon- 
scious is made up essentially of archetypes. 

The concept of the archetype, which is an indispensable 
correlate of the idea of the collective unconscious, indicates 
the existence of definite forms in the psyche which seem to 
be present always and everywhere. Mythological research 
calls them "motifs"; in the psychology of primitives they 
correspond to Levy-Bruhl's concept of "representations 
collectives," and in the field of comparative religion they 
have been defined by Hubert and Mauss as "categories of 
the imagination." Adolf Bastian long ago called them "ele- 
mentary" or "primordial thoughts." From these references 
it should be clear enough that my idea of the archetype — 
literally a pre-existent form — does not stand alone but is 
something that is recognized and named in other fields of 

My thesis, then, is as follows: In addition to our im- 
mediate consciousness, which is of a thoroughly personal 
nature and which we believe to be the only empirical 
psyche (even if we tack on the personal unconscious as 
an appendix), there exists a second psychic system of a 
collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is iden- 
tical in all individuals. This collective unconscious does 
not develop individually but is inherited. It consists of pre- 
existent forms, the archetypes, which can only become 
conscious secondarily and which give definite form to cer- 
tain psychic contents. 

The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 61 

2. The Psychological Meaning of the 
Collective Unconscious 

Medical psychology, growing as it did out of profes- 
sional practice, insists on the personal nature of the psyche. 
By this I mean the views of Freud and Adler. It is a psy- 
chology of the person, and its aetiological or causal factors 
are regarded almost wholly as personal in nature. None- 
theless, even this psychology is based on certain general 
biological factors, for instance on the sexual instinct or 
on the urge for self-assertion, which are by no means 
merely personal peculiarities. It is forced to do this because 
it lays claim to being an explanatory science. Neither of 
these views would deny the existence of a priori instincts 
common to man and animals alike, or that they have a 
significant influence on personal psychology. Yet instincts 
are impersonal, universally distributed, hereditary factors 
of a dynamic or motivating character, which very often 
fail so completely to reach consciousness that modern psy- 
chotherapy is faced with the task of helping the patient to 
become conscious of them. Moreover, the instincts are not 
vague and indefinite by nature, but are specifically formed 
motive forces which, long before there is any conscious- 
ness, and in spite of any degree of consciousness later on, 
pursue their inherent goals. Consequently they form very 
close analogies to the archetypes, so close, in fact, that 
there is good reason for supposing that the archetypes are 
the unconscious images of the instincts themselves, in 
other words, that they are patterns of instinctual behaviour. 

The hypothesis of the collective unconscious is, there- 
fore, no more daring than to assume there are instincts. 
One admits readily that human activity is influenced to a 
high degree by instincts, quite apart from the rational 
motivations of the conscious mind. So if the assertion is 
made that our imagination, perception, and thinking are 
likewise influenced by inborn and universally present for- 

62 t The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious 

mal elements, it seems to me that a normally functioning 
intelligence can discover in this idea just as much or just 
as little mysticism as in the theory of instincts. Although 
this reproach of mysticism has frequently been levelled at 
my concept, I must emphasize yet again that the concept 
of the collective unconscious is neither a speculative nor a 
philosophical but an empirical matter. The question is 
simply this: are there or are there not unconscious, uni- 
versal forms of this kind? If they exist, then there is a 
region of the psyche which one can call the collective un- 
conscious. It is true that the diagnosis of the collective 
unconscious is not always an easy task. It is not sufficient 
to point out the often obviously archetypal nature of un- 
conscious products, for these can just as well be derived 
from acquisitions through language and education. Cryp- 
tomnesia should also be ruled out, which it is almost im- 
possible to do in certain cases. In spite of all these dif- 
ficulties, there remain enough individual instances showing 
the autochthonous revival of mythological motifs to put 
the matter beyond any reasonable doubt. But if such an 
unconscious exists at all, psychological explanation must 
take account of it and submit certain alleged personal 
aetiologies to sharper criticism. 

What I mean can perhaps best be made clear by a con- 
crete example. You have probably read Freud's discussion 3 
of a certain picture by Leonardo da Vinci: St. Anne with 
the Virgin Mary and the Christ-child. Freud interprets this 
remarkable picture in terms of the fact that Leonardo 
himself had two mothers. This causality is personal. We 
shall not linger over the fact that this picture is far from 
unique, nor over the minor inaccuracy that St. Anne hap- 
pens to be the grandmother of Christ and not, as required 
by Freud's interpretation, the mother, but shall simply 
point out that interwoven with the apparently personal 

3 Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood, sec. IV. 
Translated by Alan Tyson in Sigmund Freud, Standard Edition of 
the Complete Psychological Works, II (London, 1957) 

The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 63 

psychology there is an impersonal motif well known to us 
from other fields. This is the motif of the dual mother, 
an archetype to be found in many variants in the field of 
mythology and comparative religion and forming the basis 
of numerous "representations collectives." I might men- 
tion, for instance, the motif of the dual descent, that is, 
descent from human and divine parents, as in the case of 
Heracles, who received immortality through being un- 
wittingly adopted by Hera. What was a myth in Greece 
was actually a ritual in Egypt: Pharaoh was both human 
and divine by nature. In the birth chambers of the Egyp- 
tian temples Pharaoh's second, divine conception and birth 
is depicted on the walls; he is "twice-born." It is an idea 
that underlies all rebirth mysteries, Christianity included. 
Christ himself is "twice-born": through his baptism in the 
Jordan he was regenerated and reborn from water and 
spirit. Consequently, in the Roman liturgy the font is 
designated the "uterus ecclesiae," and, as you can read in 
the Roman missal, it is called this even today, in the 
"benediction of the font" on Holy Saturday before Easter. 
Further, according to an early Christian-Gnostic idea, the 
spirit which appeared in the form of a dove was inter- 
preted as Sophia-Sapientia — Wisdom and the Mother of 
Christ. Thanks to this motif of the dual birth, children 
today, instead of having good and evil fairies who mag- 
ically "adopt" them at birth with blessings or curses, are 
given sponsors — a "godfather" and a "godmother." 

The idea of a second birth is found at all times and in 
all places. In the earliest beginnings of medicine it was a 
magical means of healing; in many religions it is the cen- 
tral mystical experience; it is the key idea in medieval, 
occult philosophy, and, last but not least, it is an infantile 
fantasy occurring in numberless children, large and small, 
who believe that their parents are not their real parents but 
merely foster-parents to whom they were handed over. 
Benvenuto Cellini also had this idea, as he himself relates 
in his autobiography. 

64 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious 

Now it is absolutely out of the question that all the in- 
dividuals who believe in a dual descent have in reality 
always had two mothers, or conversely that those few who 
shared Leonardo's fate have infected the rest of humanity 
with their complex. Rather, one cannot avoid the assump- 
tion that the universal occurrence of the dual-birth motif 
together with the fantasy of the two mothers answers an 
omnipresent human need which is reflected in these motifs. 
If Leonardo da Vinci did in fact portray his two mothers 
in St. Anne and Mary — which I doubt — he nonetheless was 
only expressing something which countless millions of peo- 
ple before and after him have believed. The vulture symbol 
(which Freud also discusses in the work mentioned) makes 
this view all the more plausible. With some justification he 
quotes as the source of the symbol the Hieroglyphica of 
Horapollo, a book much in use in Leonardo's time. There 
you read that vultures are female only and symbolize the 
mother. They conceive through the wind (pneuma). This 
word took on the meaning of "spirit" chiefly under the 
influence of Christianity. Even in the account of the mir- 
acle at Pentecost the pneuma still has the double meaning 
of wind and spirit. This fact, in my opinion, points with- 
out doubt to Mary, who, a virgin by nature, conceived 
through the pneuma, like a vulture. Furthermore, accord- 
ing to Horapollo, the vulture also symbolizes Athene, who 
sprang, unbegotten, directly from the head of Zeus, was 
a virgin, and knew only spiritual motherhood. All this is 
really an allusion to Mary and the rebirth motif. There 
is not a shadow of evidence that Leonardo meant any- 
thing else by his picture. Even if it is correct to assume that 
he identified himself with the Christ-child, he was in all 
probability representing the mythological dual-mother motif 
and by no means his own personal prehistory. And what 
about all the other artists who painted the same theme? 
Surely not all of them had two mothers? 

Let us now transpose Leonardo's case to the field of the 
neuroses, and assume that a patient with a mother complex 

The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 65 

is suffering from the delusion that the cause of his neu- 
rosis lies in his having really had two mothers. The personal 
interpretation would have to admit that he is right — and 
yet it would be quite wrong. For in reality the cause of 
his neurosis would lie in the reactivation of the dual- 
mother archetype, quite regardless of whether he had one 
mother or two mothers, because, as we have seen, this 
archetype functions individually and historically without 
any reference to the relatively rare occurrence of dual 

In such a case, it is of course tempting to presuppose so 
simple and personal a cause, yet the hypothesis is not only 
inexact but totally false. It is admittedly difficult to under- 
stand how a dual-mother motif — unknown to a physician 
trained only in medicine — could have so great a determining 
power as to produce the effect of a traumatic condition. 
But if we consider the tremendous powers that lie hidden 
in the mythological and religious sphere in man, the aetio- 
logical significance of the archetype appears less fantastic. 
In numerous cases of neurosis the cause of the disturbance 
lies in the very fact that the psychic life of the patient 
lacks the co-operation of these motive forces. Nevertheless 
a purely personalistic psychology, by reducing everything 
to personal causes, tries its level best to deny the existence 
of archetypal motifs and even seeks to destroy them by per- 
sonal analysis. I consider this a rather dangerous procedure 
which cannot be justified medically. Today you can judge 
better than you could twenty years ago the nature of the 
forces involved. Can we not see how a whole nation is 
reviving an archaic symbol, yes, even archaic religious 
forms, and how this mass emotion is influencing and rev- 
olutionizing the life of the individual in a catastrophic 
manner? 4 The man of the past is alive in us today to a 
degree undreamt of before the war, and in the last analysis 
what is the fate of great nations but a summation of the 
psychic changes in individuals? 
4 The reference, of course, is to Hitler's Germany. — J.C. 

66 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious 

So far as a neurosis is really only a private affair, hav- 
ing its roots exclusively in personal causes, archetypes play 
no role at all. But if it is a question of a general incompati- 
bility or an otherwise injurious condition productive of 
neuroses in relatively large numbers of individuals, then 
we must assume the presence of constellated archetypes. 
Since neuroses are in most cases not just private concerns, 
but social phenomena, we must assume that archetypes are 
constellated in these cases too. The archetype correspond- 
ing to the situation is activated, and as a result those ex- 
plosive and dangerous forces hidden in the archetype come 
into action, frequently with unpredictable consequences. 
There is no lunacy people under the domination of an 
archetype will not fall a prey to. If thirty years ago anyone 
had dared to predict that our psychological development 
was tending towards a revival of the medieval persecutions 
of the Jews, that Europe would again tremble before the 
Roman fasces and the tramp of legions, that people would 
once more give the Roman salute, as two thousand years 
ago, and that instead of the Christian Cross an archaic 
swastika would lure onward millions of warriors ready for 
death — why, that man would have been hooted at as a 
mystical fool. And today? Surprising as it may seem, all 
this absurdity is a horrible reality. Private life, private 
aetiologies, and private neuroses have become almost a 
fiction in the world of today. The man of the past who 
lived in a world of archaic "representations collectives" has 
risen again into very visible and painfully real life, and 
this not only in a few unbalanced individuals but in many 
millions of people. 

There are as many archetypes as there are typical situa- 
tions in life. Endless repetition has engraved these expe- 
riences into our psychic constitution, not in the form of 
images filled with content, but at first only as forms with- 
out content, representing merely the possibility of a certain 
type of perception and action. When a situation occurs 
which corresponds to a given archetype, that archetype 

The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 67 

becomes activated and a compulsiveness appears, which, 
like an instinctual drive, gains its way against all reason 
and will, or else produces a conflict of pathological dimen- 
sions, that is to say, a neurosis. 

3. Method of Proof 

We must now turn to the question of how the existence 
of archetypes can be proved. Since archetypes are supposed 
to produce certain psychic forms, we must discuss how 
and where one can get hold of the material demonstrating 
these forms. The main source, then, is dreams, which have 
the advantage of being involuntary, spontaneous products 
of the unconscious psyche and are therefore pure products 
of nature not falsified by any conscious purpose. By ques- 
tioning the individual one can ascertain which of the 
motifs appearing in the dream are known to him. From 
those which are unknown to him we must naturally exclude 
all motifs which might be known to him, as for instance — 
to revert to the case of Leonardo — the vulture symbol. 
We are not sure whether Leonardo took this symbol from 
Horapollo or not, although it would have been perfectly 
possible for an educated person of that time, because in 
those days artists were distinguished for their wide knowl- 
edge of the humanities. Therefore, although the bird motif 
is an archetype par excellence, its existence in Leonardo's 
fantasy would still prove nothing. Consequently, we must 
look for motifs which could not possibly be known to the 
dreamer and yet behave functionally in his dream in such 
a manner as to coincide with the functioning of the arche- 
type known from historical sources. 

Another source for the material we need is to be found 
in "active imagination/' By this I mean a sequence of 
fantasies produced by deliberate concentration. 1 have 
found that the existence of unrealized, unconscious fan- 
tasies increases the frequency and intensity of dreams, 

68 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious 

and that when these fantasies are made conscious the 
dreams change their character and become weaker and less 
frequent. From this I have drawn the conclusion that 
dreams often contain fantasies which "want" to become 
conscious. The sources of dreams are often repressed in- 
stincts which have a natural tendency to influence the 
conscious mind. In cases of this sort, the patient is simply 
given the task of contemplating any one fragment of fan- 
tasy that seems significant to him — a chance idea, perhaps, 
or something he has become conscious of in a dream — 
until its context becomes visible, that is to say, the relevant 
associative material in which it is embedded. It is not a 
question of the "free association" recommended by Freud 
for the purpose of dream-analysis, but of elaborating the 
fantasy by observing the further fantasy material that adds 
itself to the fragment in a natural manner. 

This is not the place to enter upon a technical discussion 
of the method. Suffice it to say that the resultant sequence 
of fantasies relieves the unconscious and produces material 
rich in archetypal images and associations. Obviously, this 
is a method that can only be used in certain carefully 
selected cases. The method is not entirely without danger, 
because it may carry the patient too far away from reality. 
A warning against thoughtless application is therefore in 

Finally, very interesting sources of archetypal material 
are to be found in the delusions of paranoiacs, the fantasies 
observed in trance-states, and the dreams of early child- 
hood, from the third to the fifth year. Such material is 
available in profusion, but it is valueless unless one can 
adduce convincing mythological parallels. It does not, of 
course, suffice simply to connect a dream about a snake 
with the mythological occurrence of snakes, for who is to 
guarantee that the functional meaning of the snake in the 
dream is the same as in the mythological setting? In order 
to draw a valid parallel, it is necessary to know the func- 
tional meaning of the individual symbol, and then to find 

The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 69 

out whether the apparently parallel mythological symbol 
has a similar context and therefore the same functional 
meaning. Establishing such facts not only requires lengthy 
and wearisome researches, but is also an ungrateful subject 
for demonstration. As the symbols must not be torn out 
of their context, one has to launch forth into exhaustive de- 
scriptions, personal as well as symbological, and this is 
practically impossible in the framework of a lecture. I 
have repeatedly tried it at the risk of sending one half of 
my audience to sleep. 

4. An Example 

[The example given is again that of the paranoid schizo- 
phrenic who thought he saw the phallus of the sun. Supra, 
p. 36.] 


The Relations Between the 
Ego and the Unconscious 1 

Part One 

The Effects of the Unconscious 

upon Consciousness 


The Personal and the Collective 


In Freud's view, as most people know, the contents of the 
unconscious are reducible to infantile tendencies which 
are repressed because of their incompatible character. 
Repression is a process that begins in early childhood under 
the moral influence of the environment and continues 
throughout life. By means of analysis the repressions are 
removed and the repressed wishes made conscious. 

According to this theory, the unconscious contains 
only those parts of the personality which could just as 
well be conscious, and have been suppressed only through 

1 From Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. Collected Works, 
Vol. 7, Second Essay, pars. 202-295; translated from Die Bezie- 
hungen zwischen clem Ich unci dem Unbewussten (2nd ed.; 1928, 
1935), published by Rascher Verlag, Zurich. 


Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 7/ 

the process of education. Although from one point of 
view the infantile tendencies of the unconscious are the 
most conspicuous, it would nonetheless be a mistake to 
define or evaluate the unconscious entirely in these terms. 
The unconscious has still another side to it: it includes 
not only repressed contents, but all psychic material that 
lies below the threshold of consciousness. It is impossible 
to explain the subliminal nature of all this material on the 
principle of repression, for in that case the removal of 
repression ought to endow a person with a prodigious mem- 
ory which would thenceforth forget nothing. 

We therefore emphatically affirm that in addition to the 
repressed material the unconscious contains all those psy- 
chic components that have fallen below the threshold, as 
well as subliminal sense-perceptions. Moreover we know, 
from abundant experience as well as for theoretical reasons, 
that the unconscious also contains all the material that has 
not yet reached the threshold of consciousness. These are 
the seeds of future conscious contents. Equally we have 
reason to suppose that the unconscious is never quiescent 
in the sense of being inactive, but is ceaselessly engaged 
in grouping and regrouping its contents. This activity 
should be thought of as completely autonomous only in 
pathological cases; normally it is co-ordinated with the 
conscious mind in a compensatory relationship. 

It is to be assumed that all these contents are of a per- 
sonal nature in so far as they are acquired during the in- 
dividual's life. Since this life is limited, the number of 
acquired contents in the unconscious must also be limited. 
This being so, it might be thought possible to empty the 
unconscious either by analysis or by making a complete 
inventory of the unconscious contents, on the ground that 
the unconscious cannot produce anything more than what 
is already known and assimilated into consciousness. We 
should also have to suppose, as already said, that if one 
could arrest the descent of conscious contents into the un- 
conscious by doing away with repression, unconscious 

y 2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

productivity would be paralyzed. This is possible only to 
a very limited extent, as we know from experience. We 
urge our patients to hold fast to repressed contents that 
have been re-associated with consciousness, and to assimi- 
late them into their plan of life. But this procedure, as 
we may daily convince ourselves, makes no impression 
on the unconscious, since it calmly goes on producing 
dreams and fantasies which, according to Freud's original 
theory, must arise from personal repressions. If in such 
cases we pursue our observations systematically and with- 
out prejudice, we shall find material which, although simi- 
lar in form to the previous personal contents, yet seems to 
contain allusions that go far beyond the personal sphere. 
Casting about in my mind for an example to illustrate 
what I have just said, I have a particularly vivid memory 
of a woman patient with a mild hysterical neurosis which, 
as we expressed it in those days [about 19 10], had its 
principal cause in a "father-complex." By this we wanted 
to denote the fact that the patient's peculiar relationship to 
her father stood in her way. She had been on very good 
terms with her father, who had since died. It was a rela- 
tionship chiefly of feeling. In such cases it is usually the 
intellectual function that is developed,' and this later be- 
comes the bridge to the world. Accordingly our patient be- 
came a student of philosophy. Her energetic pursuit of 
knowledge was motivated by her need to extricate herself 
from the emotional entanglement with her father. This 
operation may succeed if her feelings can find an outlet 
on the new intellectual level, perhaps in the formation of 
an emotional tie with a suitable man, equivalent to the 
former tie. In this particular case, however, the transition 
refused to take place, because the patient's feelings re- 
mained suspended, oscillating between her father and a 
man who was not altogether suitable. The progress of her 
life was thus held up, and that inner disunity so characteris- 
tic of a neurosis promptly made its appearance. The so- 
called normal person would probably be able to break the 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 73 

emotional bond in one or the other direction by a power- 
ful act of will, or else — and this is perhaps the more usual 
thing — he would come through the difficulty unconsciously, 
on the smooth path of instinct, without ever being aware 
of the sort of conflict that lay behind his headaches or 
other physical discomforts. But any weakness of instinct 
(which may have many causes) is enough to hinder a 
smooth unconscious transition. Then all progress is delayed 
by conflict, and the resulting stasis of life is equivalent to 
a neurosis. In consequence of the standstill, psychic energy 
flows off in every conceivable direction, apparently quite 
uselessly. For instance, there are excessive innervations 
of the sympathetic system, which lead to nervous disorders 
of the stomach and intestines; or the vagus (and con- 
sequently the heart) is stimulated; or fantasies and mem- 
ories, uninteresting enough in themselves, become over- 
valued and prey on the conscious mind (mountains out 
of molehills). In this state a new motive is needed to put 
an end to the morbid suspension. Nature herself paves the 
way for this, unconsciously and indirectly, through the 
phenomenon of the transference (Freud). In the course 
of treatment the patient transfers the father-imago to the 
doctor, thus making him, in a sense, the father, and in the 
sense that he is not the father, also making him a sub- 
stitute for the man she cannot reach. The doctor therefore 
becomes both a father and a kind of lover — in other words, 
an object of conflict. In him the opposites are united, and 
for this reason he stands for a quasi-ideal solution of the 
conflict. Without in the least wishing it he draws upon him- 
self an over-valuation that is almost incredible to the out- 
sider, for to the patient he seems like a saviour or a god. 
This way of speaking is not altogether so laughable as it 
sounds. It is indeed a bit much to be a father and lover 
at once. Nobody could possibly stand up to it in the long 
run, precisely because it is too much of a good thing. One 
would have to be a demigod at least to sustain such a role 
without a break, for all the time one would have to be 

74 ' T™° Essays on Analytical Psychology 

the giver. To the patient in the state of transference, this 
provisional solution naturally seems ideal, but only at first; 
in the end she comes to a standstill that is just as bad as 
the neurotic conflict was. Fundamentally, nothing has yet 
happened that might lead to a real solution. The conflict 
has merely been transferred. Nevertheless a successful 
transference can — at least temporarily — cause the whole 
neurosis to disappear, and for this reason it has been very 
rightly recognized by Freud as a healing factor of first-rate 
importance, but, at the same time, as a provisional state 
only, for although it holds out the possibility of a cure, it 
is far from being the cure itself. 

This somewhat lengthy discussion seemed to me essential 
if my example was to be understood, for my patient had 
arrived at the state of transference and had already reached 
the upper limit where the standstill begins to make itself 
disagreeable. The question now arose: what next? I had 
of course become the complete saviour, and the thought of 
having to give me up was not only exceedingly distasteful 
to the patient, but positively terrifying. In such a situation 
"sound common sense" generally comes out with a whole 
repertory of admonitions: "you simply must," "you really 
ought," "you just cannot," etc. So far as sound common 
sense is, happily, not too rare and not entirely without 
effect (pessimists, I know, exist), a rational motive can, 
in the exuberant feeling of buoyancy you get from the 
transference, release so much enthusiasm that a painful 
sacrifice can be risked with a mighty effort of will. If suc- 
cesslul — and these things sometimes are — the sacrifice 
bears blessed fruit, and the erstwhile patient leaps at one 
bound into the state of being practically cured. The doctor 
is generally so delighted that he fails to tackle the theoreti- 
cal difficulties connected with this little miracle. 

II the leap docs not succeed — and it did not succeed 
with my patient— one is then faced with the problem of 
resolving the transference. Here "psychoanalytic" theory 
shrouds itself in a thick darkness. Apparently we are to 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 75 

fall back on some nebulous trust in fate: somehow or 
other the matter will settle itself. "The transference stops 
automatically when the patient runs out of money," as a 
slightly cynical colleague once remarked to me. Or the 
ineluctable demands of life make it impossible for the pa- 
tient to linger on in the transference — demands which 
compel the involuntary sacrifice, sometimes with a more or 
less complete relapse as a result. (One may look in vain 
for accounts of such cases in the books that sing the praises 
of psychoanalysis!) 

To be sure, there are hopeless cases. where nothing helps; 
but there are also cases that do not get stuck and do not 
inevitably leave the transference situation with bitter hearts 
and sore heads. I told myself, at this juncture with my 
patient, that there must be a clear and respectable way 
out of the impasse. My patient had long since run out of 
money — if indeed she ever possessed any — but I was curi- 
ous to know what means nature would devise for a satis- 
factory way out of the transference deadlock. Since I 
never imagined that I was blessed with that "sound com- 
mon sense" which always knows exactly what to do in 
every quandary, and since my patient knew as little as I, 
I suggested to her that we could at least keep an eye open 
for any movements coming from a sphere of the psyche un- 
contaminated by our superior wisdom and our conscious 
plannings. That meant first and foremost her dreams. 

Dreams contain images and thought-associations which 
we do not create with conscious intent. They arise spon- 
taneously without our assistance and are representatives of 
a psychic activity withdrawn from our arbitrary will. 
Therefore the dream is, properly speaking, a highly ob- 
jective, natural product of the psyche, from which we 
might expect indications, or at least hints, about certain 
basic trends in the psychic process. Now, since the psychic 
process, like any other life-process, is not just a causal 
sequence, but is also a process with a telcological orienta- 
tion, we might expect dreams to give us certain indicia 

y6 ; Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

about the objective causality as well as about the objective 
tendencies, precisely because dreams are nothing less than 
self-representations of the psychic life-process. 

On the basis of these reflections, then, we subjected the 
dreams to a careful examination. It would lead too far to 
quote word for word all the dreams that now followed. 
Let it suffice to sketch their main character: the majority 
referred to the person of the doctor, that is to say, the 
actors were unmistakably the dreamer herself and her 
doctor. The latter, however, seldom appeared in his nat- 
ural shape, but was generally distorted in a remarkable 
way. Sometimes his figure was of supernatural size, some- 
times he seemed to be extremely aged, then again he resem- 
bled her father, but was at the same time curiously woven 
into nature, as in the following dream: Her father (who 
in reality was of small stature) was standing with her on 
a hill that was covered with wheat-fields. She was quite 
tiny beside him, and he seemed to her like a giant. He 
lifted her up from the ground and held her in his arms like 
a little child. The wind swept over the wheat-fields, and as 
the wheat swayed in the wind, he rocked her in his arms. 

From this dream and from others like it I could discern 
various things. Above all I got the impression that her 
unconscious was holding unshakably to the idea of my 
being the father-lover, so that the fatal tie we were trying 
to undo appeared to be doubly strengthened. Moreover 
one could hardly avoid seeing that the unconscious placed 
a special emphasis on the supernatural, almost "divine" 
nature of the father-lover, thus accentuating still further 
the over-valuation occasioned by the transference. I there- 
fore asked myself whether the patient had still not under- 
stood the wholly fantastic character of her transference, 
or whether perhaps the unconscious could never be 
reached by understanding at all, but must blindly and 
idiotically pursue some nonsensical chimera. Freud's idea 
that the unconscious can "do nothing but wish," Schopen- 
hauer's blind and aimless Will, the gnostic demiurge who 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 77 

in his vanity deems himself perfect and then in the blind- 
ness of his limitation creates something lamentably im- 
perfect — all these pessimistic suspicions of an essentially 
negative background to the world and the soul came threat- 
eningly near. And there would indeed be nothing to set 
against this except a well-meaning "you ought," reinforced 
by a stroke of the axe that would cut down the whole 
phantasmagoria for good and all. 

But, as I turned the dreams over and over in my mind, 
there dawned on me another possibility. I said to myself: it 
cannot be denied that the dreams continue to speak in the 
same old metaphors with which our conversations have 
made the patient as well as myself sickeningly familiar. 
But the patient has an undoubted understanding of her 
transference fantasy. She knows that 1 appear to her as 
a semi-divine father-lover, and she can, at least intellec- 
tually, distinguish this from my factual reality. Therefore 
the dreams are obviously reiterating the conscious stand- 
point minus the conscious criticism, which they completely 
ignore. They reiterate the conscious contents, not in toto, 
but insist on the fantastic standpoint as opposed to "sound 
common sense." 

I naturally asked myself what was the source of this 
obstinacy and what was its purpose? That it must have 
some purposive meaning I was convinced, for there is no 
truly living thing that does not have a final meaning, that 
can in other words be explained as a mere left-over from 
antecedent facts. But the energy of the transference is so 
strong that it gives one the impression of a vital instinct. 
That being so, what is the purpose of such fantasies? A 
careful examination and analysis of the dreams, especially 
of the one just quoted, revealed a very marked tendency 
— in contrast to conscious criticism, which always seeks 
to reduce things to human proportions — to endow the 
person of the doctor with superhuman attributes. He had 
to be gigantic, primordial, hugcr than the father, like the 
wind that sweeps over the earth — was he then to be made 

y8 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

into a god? Or, I said to myself, was it rather the case 
that the unconscious was trying to create a god out of 
the person of the doctor, as it were to free a vision of God 
from the veils of the personal, so that the transference to 
the person of the doctor was no more than a misunder- 
standing on the part of the conscious mind, a stupid trick 
played by "sound common sense"? Was the urge of the 
unconscious perhaps only apparently reaching out towards 
the person, but in a deeper sense towards a god? Could 
the longing for a god be a passion welling up from our 
darkest, instinctual nature, a passion unswayed by any 
outside influences, deeper and stronger perhaps than the 
love for a human person? Or was it perhaps the highest 
and truest meaning of that inappropriate love we call 
"transference," a little bit of real Gottesminne, that has 
been lost to consciousness ever since the fifteenth century? 

No one will doubt the reality of a passionate longing for 
a human person; but that a fragment of religious psy- 
chology, an historical anachronism, indeed something of 
a medieval curiosity — we are reminded of Mechtild of 
Magdeburg — should come to light as an immediate living 
reality in the middle of the consulting-room, and be ex- 
pressed in the prosaic figure of the doctor, seems almost 
too fantastic to be taken seriously. 

A genuinely scientific attitude must be unprejudiced. The 
sole criterion for the validity of an hypothesis is whether 
or not it possesses an heuristic — i.e., explanatory — value. 
The question now is, can we regard the possibilities set 
forth above as a valid hypothesis? There is no a priori 
reason why it should not be just as possible that the un- 
conscious tendencies have a goal beyond the human person, 
as that the unconscious can "do nothing but wish." Ex- 
perience alone can decide which is the more suitable hy- 
pothesis. This new hypothesis was not entirely plausible to 
my very critical patient. The earlier view that I was the 
father-lover, and as such presented an ideal solution of the 
conflict, was incomparably more attractive to her way of 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 79 

feeling. Nevertheless her intellect was sufficiently keen to 
appreciate the theoretical possibility of the new hypothesis. 
Meanwhile the dreams continued to disintegrate the person 
of the doctor and swell him to ever vaster proportions. Con- 
currently with this there now occurred something which at 
first I alone perceived, and with the utmost astonishment, 
namely a kind of subterranean undermining of the transfer- 
ence. Her relations with a certain friend deepened percepti- 
bly, notwithstanding the fact that consciously she still clung 
to the transference. So that when the time came for leav- 
ing me, it was no catastrophe, but a perfectly reasonable 
parting. I had the privilege of being the only witness during 
the process of severance. I saw how the transpersonal con- 
trol-point developed — I cannot call it anything else — a 
guiding function and step by step gathered to itself all the 
former personal over-valuations; how, with this afflux of 
energy, it gained influence over the resisting conscious mind 
without the patient's consciously noticing what was hap- 
pening. From this I realized that the dreams were not just 
fantasies, but self-representations of unconscious devel- 
opments which allowed the psyche of the patient gradually 
to grow out of the pointless personal tie. 

This change took place, as I showed, through the un- 
conscious development of a transpersonal control-point; 
a virtual goal, as it were, that expressed itself symbolically 
in a form which can only be described as a vision of God. 
The dreams swelled the human person of the doctor to 
superhuman proportions, making him a gigantic primordial 
father who is at the same time the wind, and in whose 
protecting arms the dreamer rests like an infant. If we 
try to make the patient's conscious, and traditionally 
Christian, idea of God responsible for the divine image 
in the dreams, we would still have to lay stress on the 
distortion. In religious matters the patient had a critical 
and agnostic attitude, and her idea of a possible deity had 
long since passed into the realm of the inconceivable, i.e., 
had dwindled into a complete abstraction. In contrast to 

80 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

this, the god-image of the dreams corresponded to the 
archaic conception of a nature-daemon, something like 
Wotan. 0eo<? to irvevfia, "God is spirit," is here translated 
back into its original form where irvevfxa means "wind": 
God is the wind, stronger and mightier than man, an in- 
visible breath-spirit. As in Hebrew ruah, so in Arabic ruh 
means breath and spirit. 2 Out of the purely personal form 
the dreams develop an archaic god-image that is infinitely 
far from the conscious idea of God. It might be objected 
that this is simply an infantile image, a childhood memory. 
I would have no quarrel with this assumption if we were 
dealing with an old man sitting on a golden throne in 
heaven. But there is no trace of any sentimentality of that 
kind; instead, we have a primordial idea that can corre- 
spond only to an archaic mentality. 

These primordial ideas, of which I have given a great 
many examples in my Symbols of Transformation , oblige 
one to make, in regard to unconscious material, a distinc- 
tion of quite a different character from that between "pre- 
conscious" and "unconscious" or "subconscious" and "un- 
conscious." The justification for these distinctions need 
not be discussed here. They have their specific value and 
are worth elaborating further as points of view. The funda- 
mental distinction which experience has forced upon me 
claims to be no more than that. It should be evident from 
the foregoing that we have to distinguish in the uncon- 
scious a layer which we may call the personal unconscious. 
The materials contained in this layer are of a personal 
nature in so far as they have the character partly of ac- 
quisitions derived from the individual's life and partly of 
psychological factors which could just as well be conscious. 
It can readily be understood that incompatible psychological 
elements are liable to repression and therefore become 
unconscious. But on the other hand this implies the possi- 
bility of making and keeping the repressed contents con- 
dor a fuller elaboration of this theme see Symbols of Transforma- 
tion {Collected Works, Vol. 5), index, s.v. "wind." 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 81 

scious once they have been recognized. We recognize them 
as personal contents because their effects, or their partial 
manifestation, or their source can be discovered in our 
personal past. They are the integral components of the 
personality, they belong to its inventory, and their loss to 
consciousness produces an inferiority in one respect or 
another — an inferiority, moreover, that has the psychologi- 
cal character not so much of an organic lesion or an inborn 
defect as of a lack which gives rise to a feeling of moral 
resentment. The sense of moral inferiority always indicates 
that the missing element is something which, to judge by 
this feeling about it, really ought not be missing, or which 
could be made conscious if only one took sufficient trouble. 
The moral inferiority does not come from a collision with 
the generally accepted and, in a sense, arbitrary moral law, 
but from the conflict with one's own self which, for 
reasons of psychic equilibrium, demands that the deficit 
be redressed. Whenever a sense of moral inferiority appears, 
it indicates not only a need to assimilate an unconscious 
component, but also the possibility of such assimilation. 
In the last resort it is a man's moral qualities which force 
him, cither through direct recognition of the need or in- 
directly through a painful neurosis, to assimilate his uncon- 
scious self and to keep himself fully conscious. Whoever 
progresses along this road of self-realization must inevitably 
bring into consciousness the contents of the personal un- 
conscious, thus enlarging the scope of his personality. 1 
should add at once that this enlargement has to do pri- 
marily with one's moral consciousness, one's knowledge 
of oneself, for the unconscious contents that are released 
and brought into consciousness by analysis are usually un- 
pleasant — which is precisely why these wishes, memories, 
tendencies, plans, etc. were repressed. These are the con- 
tents that are brought to light in much the same way by 
a thorough confession, though to a much more limited 
extent. The rest comes out as a rule in dream analysis. It is 
often very interesting to watch how the dreams fetch up 

82 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

the essential points, bit by bit and with the nicest choice. 
The total material that is added to consciousness causes a 
considerable widening of the horizon, a deepened self- 
knowledge which, more than anything else, one would 
think, is calculated to humanize a man and make him 
modest. But even self-knowledge, assumed by all wise men 
to be the best and most efficacious, has different effects 
on different characters. We make very remarkable dis- 
coveries in this respect in practical analysis, but I shall 
deal with this question in the next chapter. 

As my example of the archaic idea of God shows, the 
unconscious seems to contain other things besides personal 
acquisitions and belongings. My patient was quite uncon- 
scious of the derivation of "spirit" from "wind," or of the 
parallelism between the two. This content was not the 
product of her thinking, nor had she ever been taught it. 
The critical passage in the New Testament was inaccessible 
to her — to iTvtvfia Trvel ottov 6£\u — since she knew no 
Greek. If we must take it as a wholly personal acquisition, 
it might be a case of so-called cryptomnesia, 8 the uncon- 
scious recollection of a thought which the dreamer had 
once read somewhere. I have nothing against such a possi- 
bility in this particular case; but I have seen a sufficient 
number of other cases — many of them are to be found in 
the book mentioned above — where cryptomnesia can be 
excluded with certainty. Even if it were a case of cryptom- 
nesia, which seems to me very improbable, we should still 
have to explain what the predisposition was that caused 
just this image to be retained and later, as Semon puts it, 
"ecphoratcd" (eKcpopdv, Latin efjene, 'to produce'). In any 
case, cryptomnesia or no cryptomnesia, we are dealing with 
a genuine and thoroughly primitive god-image that grew 
up in the unconscious of a civilized person and produced 

:, Cf. Theodore Flournoy, Des hides a la planete Mars: Etude sur 
un cas de somnambulisme avec Glossolalie (Paris and Geneva, 
1900), translated by D. B. Vcrmilye as From India to the Planet 
Mars (New York, 1900), and Jung, "Psychology and Pathology of 
So-called Occult Phenomena" (Ce/tecfed Works, Vol. 1), pars. 138!!. 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 83 

a living effect — an effect which might well give the psy- 
chologist of religion food for reflection. There is nothing 
about this image that could be called personal: it is a 
wholly collective image, the ethnic origin of which has 
long been known to us. Here is an historical image of 
world-wide distribution that has come into existence again 
through a natural psychic function. This is not so very 
surprising, since my patient was born into the world with 
a human brain which presumably still functions today 
much as it did of old. We arc dealing with a reactivated 
archetype, as I have elsewhere called these primordial 
images. 4 These ancient images are restored to life by the 
primitive, analogical mode of thinking peculiar to dreams. 
It is not a question of inherited ideas, but of inherited 
thought-patterns. 5 

In view of these facts we must assume that the uncon- 
scious contains not only personal, but also impersonal 
collective components in the form of inherited categories 
or archetypes. I have therefore advanced the hypothesis 
that at its deeper levels the unconscious possesses collective 
contents in a relatively active state. That is why I speak of 
a collective unconscious. 


Phenomena Resulting from 
the Assimilation of the Unconscious 

The process of assimilating the unconscious leads to 
some very remarkable phenomena. It produces in some 
patients an unmistakable and often unpleasant increase of 
self-confidence and conceit: they are full of themselves, 

4 Cf. Psychological Types (Collected Works, Vol. 6), Dcf. 26. [Sec 

also supra pp. xxxi-xxxii, 39-46, and 50-58. — J.C. 

3 Consequently, the accusation of "fanciful mysticism'* levelled at 

my ideas is lacking in foundation. 

Henry Hubert and Marcel Mauss, Melanges d'histoire des religions 

(Paris, 1909), p. xxix. 

84 .' Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

they know everything, they imagine themselves to be fully 
informed of everything concerning their unconscious, and 
arc persuaded that they understand perfectly everything 
that comes out of it. At every interview with the doctor 
they get more and more above themselves. Others on the 
contrary feel themselves more and more crushed under the 
contents of the unconscious, they lose their self-confidence 
and abandon themselves with dull resignation to all the 
extraordinary things that the unconscious produces. The 
former, overflowing with feelings of their own importance, 
assume a responsibility for the unconscious that goes much 
too far, beyond all reasonable bounds; the others finally 
give up all sense of responsibility, overcome by a sense of 
the powerlessness of the ego against the fate working 
through the unconscious. 

If we analyze these two modes of reaction more deeply, 
we find that the optimistic self-confidence of the first con- 
ceals a profound sense of impotence, for which their con- 
scious optimism acts as an unsuccessful compensation; 
while the pessimistic resignation of the others masks a 
defiant will to power, far surpassing in cccksureness the 
conscious optimism of the first type. 

With these two modes of reaction I have sketched only 
two crude extremes. A finer shading would have been 
truer to reality. As I have said elsewhere, every analysand 
starts by unconsciously misusing his newly won knowledge 
in the interests of his abnormal, neurotic attitude, unless 
he is sufficiently freed from his symptoms in the early 
stages to be able to dispense with further treatment al- 
together. A very important contributory factor is that in the 
early stages everything is still understood on the objective 
level, i.e., without distinction between imago and object, so 
that everything is referred directly to the object. Hence 
the man for whom "other people 1 ' are the objects of prime 
importance will conclude from any self-knowledge he may 
have imbibed at this stage of the analysis: "Aha! so that is 
what other people are like!" He will therefore feel it his 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 85 

duty, according to his nature, tolerant or otherwise, to 
enlighten the world. But the other man, who feels himself 
to be more the object of his fellows than their subject, will 
be weighed down by this self-knowledge and become corre- 
spondingly depressed. (I am naturally leaving out of ac- 
count those numerous and more superficial natures who 
experience these problems only by the way.) In both cases 
the -relation to the object is reinforced — in the first case 
in an active, in the second case in a reactive sense. The 
collective element is markedly accentuated. The one extends 
the sphere of his action, the other the sphere of his suffering. 
Adler has employed the term "godlikeness" to character- 
ize certain basic features of neurotic power psychology. 
If I likewise borrow the same term from Faust, I use it 
here more in the sense of that well-known passage where 
Mephisto writes "Eritis sicut Dcus, scientes bonum et 
malum 1 ' in the student's album, and makes the following 

Just follow the old advice 

And my cousin the snake. 

There'll come a time when your godlikeness 

Will make you quiver and quake. 7 

The godlikeness evidently refers to knowledge, the knowl- 
edge of good and evil. The analysis and conscious realiza- 
tion of unconscious contents engender a certain superior 
tolerance, thanks to which even relatively indigestible por- 
tions of one's unconscious characterclogy can be accepted. 
This tolerance may look very wise and superior, but often 
it is no more than a grand gesture that brings all sorts of 
consequences in its train. Two spheres have been brought 
together which before were kept anxiously apart. After 
considerable resistances have been overcome, the union of 
opposites is successfully achieved, at least to all appearances. 
The deeper understanding thus gained, the juxtaposition of 
what was before separated, and hence the apparent ovcr- 

7 Faust, Part I, 3rd scene in Faust's study. 

86 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

coming of the moral conflict, give rise to a feeling of 
superiority that may well be expressed by the term "god- 
likeness. " But this same juxtaposition of good and evil can 
have a very different effect on a different kind of tempera- 
ment. Not everyone will feel himself a superman, holding 
in his hands the scales of good and evil. It may also seem 
as though he were a helpless object caught between ham- 
mer and anvil; not in the least a Hercules at the parting of 
the ways, but rather a rudderless ship buffeted between 
Scylla and Charybdis. For without knowing it, he is caught 
up in perhaps the greatest and most ancient of human 
conflicts, experiencing the throes of eternal principles in 
collision. Well might he feel himself like a Prometheus 
chained to the Caucasus, or as one crucified. This would 
be a "godlikeness" in suffering. Godlikeness is certainly 
not a scientific concept, although it aptly characterizes the 
psychological state in question. Nor do I imagine that 
every reader will immediately grasp the peculiar state of 
mind implied by "godlikeness." The term belongs too ex- 
clusively to the sphere of belles-lettres. So I should probably 
be better advised to give a more circumspect description of 
this state. The insight and understanding, then, gained by 
the analysand usually reveal much to him that was before 
unconscious. He naturally applies this knowledge to his 
environment; in consequence he sees, or thinks he sees, 
many things that before were invisible. Since his knowl- 
edge was helpful to him, he readily assumes that it would be 
useful also to others. In this way he is liable to become 
arrogant; it may be well meant, but it is nonetheless annoy- 
ing to other people. He feels as though he possesses a key 
that opens many, perhaps even all, doors. Psychoanalysis 
itself has this same bland unconsciousness of its limitations, 
as can clearly be seen from the way it meddles with works 
of art. 

Since human nature is not compounded wholly of light, 
but also abounds in shadows, the insight gained in practical 
analysis is often somewhat painful, the more so if, as is 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 87 

generally the case, one has previously neglected the other 
side. Hence there are people who take their newly won in- 
sight very much to heart, far too much in fact, quite for- 
getting that they are not unique in having a shadow-side. 
They allow themselves to get unduly depressed and are 
then inclined to doubt everything, finding nothing right 
anywhere. That is why many excellent analysts with very 
good ideas can never bring themselves to publish them, be- 
cause the psychic problem, as they see it, is so overwhelm- 
ingly vast that it seems to them almost impossible to tackle 
it scientifically. One man's optimism makes him overween- 
ing, while another's pessimism makes him over-anxious 
and despondent. Such are the forms which the great con- 
flict takes when reduced to a smaller scale. But even in 
these lesser proportions the essence of the conflict is 
easily recognized: the arrogance of the one and the de- 
spondency of the other share a common uncertainty as to 
their boundaries. The one is excessively expanded, the 
other excessively contracted. Their individual boundaries 
are in some way obliterated. If we now consider the fact 
that, as a result of psychic compensation, great humility 
stands very close to pride, and that "pride goeth before 
a fall," we can easily discover behind the haughtiness cer- 
tain traits of an anxious sense of inferiority. In fact we 
shall see clearly how his uncertainty forces the enthusiast 
to puff up his truths, of which he feels none too sure, and 
to win proselytes to his side in order that his followers 
may prove to himself the value and trustworthiness of 
his own convictions. Nor is he altogether so happy in his 
fund of knowledge as to be able to hold out alone; at 
bottom he feels isolated by it, and the secret fear of being 
left alone with it induces him to trot out his opinions and 
interpretations in and out of season, because only .when 
convincing someone else does he feel safe from gnawing 

It is just the reverse with our despondent friend. The 
more he withdraws and hides himself, the greater becomes 

SS : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

his secret need to be understood and recognized. Although 
he speaks of his inferiority he does not really believe it. 
There arises within him a defiant conviction of his un- 
recognized merits, and in consequence he is sensitive to 
the slightest disapprobation, always wearing the stricken 
air of one who is misunderstood and deprived of his right- 
ful due. In this way he nurses a morbid pride and an in- 
solent discontent — which is the very last thing he wants 
and for which his environment has to pay all the more 

Both are at once too small and too big; their individual 
mean, never very secure, now becomes shakier than ever. 
It sounds almost grotesque to describe such a state as 
"godlike." But since each in his way steps beyond his 
human proportions, both of them are a little "superhuman" 
and therefore, figuratively speaking, godlike. If we wish to 
avoid the use of this metaphor, I would suggest that we 
speak instead of "psychic inflation." The term seems to 
me appropriate in so far as the state we are discussing in- 
volves an extension of the personality beyond individual 
limits, in other words, a state of being puffed up. In such 
a state a man fills a space which normally he cannot fill. 
He can only fill it by appropriating to himself contents 
and qualities which properly exist for themselves alone and 
should therefore remain outside our bounds. What lies out- 
side ourselves belongs either to someone else, or to every- 
one, or to no one. Since psychic inflation is by no means 
a phenomenon induced exclusively by analysis, but occurs 
just as often in ordinary life, we can investigate it equally 
well in other cases. A very common instance is the humour- 
less way in which many men identify themselves with 
their business or their titles. The office I hold is certainly 
my special activity; but it is also a collective factor that 
has come into existence historically through the co-opera- 
tion of many people and whose dignity rests solely on col- 
lective approval. When, therefore, I identify myself with 
my office or title, I behave as though I myself were the 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 89 

whole complex of social factors of which that office con- 
sists, or as though I were not only the bearer of the office, 
but also and at the same time the approval of society. I 
have made an extraordinary extension of myself and have 
usurped qualities which are not in me but outside me. 
L'etat c'est moi is the motto for such people. 

In the case of inflation through knowledge we are deal- 
ing with something similar in principle, though psycholog- 
ically more subtle. Here it is not the dignity of an office 
that causes the inflation, but very significant fantasies. 1 
will explain what I mean by a practical example, choosing 
a mental case whom I happened to know personally and 
who is also mentioned in a publication by Maeder. 8 The 
case is characterized by a high degree of inflation. (In 
mental cases we can observe all the phenomena that are 
present only fleetingly in normal people, in a cruder and 
enlarged form.) 9 The patient suffered from paranoid de- 
mentia with megalomania. He was in telephonic com- 
munication with the Mother of God and other great ones. 
In human reality he was a wretched locksmith's apprentice 
who at the age of nineteen had become incurably insane. 
He had never been blessed with intelligence, but he had, 
among other things, hit upon the magnificent idea that 
the world was his picture-book, the pages of which he 
could turn at will. The proof was quite simple: he had 
only to turn round, and there was a new page for him to 

This is Schopenhauer's "world as will and idea" in un- 

8 A. Maeder, "Psychologische Untersuchungen an Dementia-Praecox- 
Kranken," Jalubuch jiir psychoanalytische unci psychopathologische 
Forscluingen, 11 (1910), 209ft. 

•When I was still a doctor at the psychiatric clinic in Zurich, I 
once took an intelligent layman through the sick-wards. He had 
never seen a lunatic asylum from the inside before. When we had 
finished our round, he exclaimed, "I tell you, it's just like Zurich in 
miniature! A quintessence of the population. It is as though all the 
types one meets every day on the streets had been assembled here 
in their classical purity. Nothing but oddities and picked specimens 
from top to bottom of society!" 1 had never looked at it from this 
angle before, but my friend was not far wrong. 

go : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

adorned, primitive concreteness of vision. A shattering idea 
indeed, born of extreme alienation and seclusion from the 
world, but so naively and simply expressed that at first 
one can only smile at the grotesqueness of it. And yet this 
primitive way of looking lies at the very heart of Schopen- 
hauer's brilliant vision of the world. Only a genius or a 
madman could so disentangle himself from the bonds of 
reality as to see the world as his picture-book. Did the 
patient actually work out or build up such a vision, or did 
it just befall him? Or did he perhaps fall into it? His 
pathological disintegration and inflation point rather to 
the latter. It is no longer he that thinks and speaks, but it 
thinks and speaks within him: he hears voices. So the 
diilerence between him and Schopenhauer is that, in him, 
the vision remained at the stage of a mere spontaneous 
growth, while Schopenhauer abstracted it and expressed it 
in language of universal validity. In so doing he raised it 
out of its subterranean beginnings into the clear light of 
collective consciousness. But it would be quite wrong to 
suppose that the patient's vision had a purely personal 
character or value, as though it were something that be- 
longed to him. If that were so, he would be a philosopher, 
A man is a philosopher of genius only when he succeeds 
in transmuting the primitive and merely natural vision into 
an abstract idea belonging to the common stock of con- 
sciousness. This achievement, and this alone, constitutes 
his personal value, for which he may take credit without 
necessarily succumbing to inflation. But the sick man's 
vision is an impersonal value, a natural growth against 
which he is powerless to defend himself, by which he is 
actually swallowed up and "wafted" clean out of the world. 
Far from his mastering the idea and expanding it into a 
philosophical view of the world, it is truer to say that the 
undoubted grandeur of his vision blew him up to patholog- 
ical proportions. The personal value lies entirely in the 
philosophical achievement, not in the primary vision. To 
the philosopher as well this vision comes as so much in- 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 91 

crement, and is simply a part of the common property of 
mankind, in which, in principle, everyone has a share. 
The golden apples drop from the same tree, whether they 
be gathered by an imbecile locksmith's apprentice or by a 

There is, however, yet another thing to be learnt from 
this example, namely that these transpersonal contents are 
not just inert or dead matter that can be annexed at will. 
Rather they are living entities which exert an attractive 
force upon the conscious mind. Identification with one's 
office or one's title is very attractive indeed, which is pre- 
cisely why so many men are nothing more than the de- 
corum accorded to them by society. In vain would one look 
for a personality behind the husk. Underneath all the 
padding one would find a very pitiable little creature. That 
is why the office — or whatever this outer husk may be — 
is so attractive: it offers easy compensation for personal 

Outer attractions, such as offices, titles, and other social 
regalia are not the only things that cause inflation. These 
are simply impersonal quantities that lie outside in society, 
in the collective consciousness. But just as there is a society 
outside the individual, so there is a collective psyche out- 
side the personal psyche, namely the collective uncon- 
scious, concealing, as the above example shows, elements 
that are no whit less attractive. And just as a man may 
suddenly step into the world on his professional dignity 
("Messieurs, a present je suis Roy"), so another may dis- 
appear out of it equally suddenly when it is his lot to be- 
hold one of those mighty images that put a new face upon 
the world. These are the magical representations collectives 
which underlie the slogan, the catchword, and, on a higher 
level, the language of the poet and mystic. I am reminded 
of another mental case who was neither a poet nor any- 
thing very outstanding, just a naturally quiet and rather 
sentimental youth. He had fallen in love with a girl and, 
as so often happens, had failed to ascertain whether his 

£2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

love was requited. His primitive participation mystique 
took it for granted that his agitations were plainly the 
agitations of the other, which on the lower levels of hu- 
man psychology is naturally very often the case. Thus he 
built up a sentimental love-fantasy which precipitately 
collapsed when he discovered that the girl would have 
none of him. He was so desperate that he went straight to 
the river to drown himself. It was late at night, and the 
stars gleamed up at him from the dark water. It seemed 
to him that the stars were swimming two by two down the 
river, and a wonderful feeling came over him. He forgot 
his suicidal intentions and gazed fascinated at the strange, 
sweet drama. And gradually he became aware that every 
star was a face, and that all these pairs were lovers, who 
were carried along locked in a dreaming embrace. An 
entirely new understanding came to him: all had changed 
— his fate, his disappointment, even his love, receded and 
fell away. The memory of the girl grew distant, blurred; 
but instead, he felt with complete certainty that untold 
riches were promised him. He knew that an immense 
treasure lay hidden for him in the neighbouring observa- 
tory. The result was that he was arrested by the police at 
four o'clock in the morning, attempting to break into the 

What had happened? His poor head had glimpsed a 
Dantesque vision, whose loveliness he could never have 
grasped had he read it in a poem. But he saw it, and it 
transformed him. What had hurt him most was now far 
away; a new and undreamed-of world of stars, tracing their 
silent courses far beyond this grievous earth, had opened 
out to him the moment he crossed "Proserpine's threshold." 
The intuition of untold wealth — and could any fail to be 
touched by this thought?— came to him like a revelation. 
For his poor turnip-head it was too much. He did not 
drown in the river, but in an eternal image, and its beauty 
perished with him. 

Just as one man may disappear in his social role, so 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 93 

another may be engulfed in an inner vision and be lost to 
his surroundings. Many fathomless transformations of per- 
sonality, like sudden conversions and other far-reaching 
changes of mind, originate in the attractive power of a 
collective image, 10 which, as the present example shows, 
can cause such a high degree of inflation that the entire 
personality is disintegrated. This disintegration is a mental 
disease, of a transitory or a permanent nature, a "splitting 
of the mind" or "schizophrenia," in Bleuler's term. 11 The 
pathological inflation naturally depends on some innate 
weakness of the personality against the autonomy of col- 
lective unconscious contents. 

We shall probably get nearest to the truth if we think 
of the conscious and personal psyche as resting upon the 
broad basis of an inherited and universal psychic disposi- 
tion which is as such unconscious, and that our personal 
psyche bears the same relation to the collective psyche as 
the individual to society. 

But equally, just as the individual is not merely a unique 
and separate being, but is also a social being, so the hu- 
man psyche is not a self-contained and wholly individual 
phenomenon, but also a collective one. And just as certain 
social functions or instincts are opposed to the interests of 
single individuals, so the human psyche exhibits certain 
functions or tendencies which, on account of their collec- 
tive nature, are opposed to individual needs. The reason 
for this is that every man is born with a highly differen- 
tiated brain and is thus assured of a wide range of mental 
functioning which is neither developed ontogenetically nor 
acquired. But, to the degree that human brains are uni- 
formly differentiated, the mental functioning thereby made 
possible is also collective and universal. This explains, for 
example, the interesting fact that the unconscious processes 

10 Leon Daudct, in L'Heredo (Paris, 1916), calls this process "auto- 
fecondaiion interieure," by which he means the reawakening of an 
ancestral soul. 

11 Eugcn Blculcr, Dementia Praccox or the Group of Schizophrenias, 
originally published 1911, translated by J. Zinkin (New York, 1950). 

94 • Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

of the most widely separated peoples and races show a 
quite remarkable correspondence, which displays itself, 
among other things, in the extraordinary but well-authen- 
ticated analogies between the forms and motifs of autoch- 
thonous myths. The universal similarity of human brains 
leads to the universal possibility of a uniform mental func- 
tioning. This functioning is the collective psyche. Inasmuch 
as there are differentiations corresponding to race, tribe, 
and even family, there is also a collective psyche limited to 
race, tribe, and family over and above the "universal" 
collective psyche. To borrow an expression from Pierre 
Janet, 12 the collective psyche comprises the parties in- 
ferieures of the 'psychic functions, that is to say those 
deep-rooted, well-nigh automatic portions of the individual 
psyche which are inherited and are to be found every- 
where, and are thus impersonal or suprapersonal. Con- 
sciousness plus the personal unconscious constitutes the 
parties superieures of the psychic functions, those por- 
tions, therefore, that are developed ontogenetically and 
acquired. Consequently, the individual who annexes the 
unconscious heritage of the collective psyche to what has 
accrued to him in the course of his ontogenetic develop- 
ment, as though it were part of the latter, enlarges the 
scope of his personality in an illegitimate way and suffers 
the consequences. In so far as the collective psyche com- 
prises the parties inferieures of the psychic functions and 
thus forms the basis of every personality, it has the effect 
of crushing and devaluing the personality. This shows it- 
self either in the aforementioned stifling of self-confidence 
or else in an unconscious heightening of the ego's impor- 
tance to the point of a pathological will to power. 

By raising the personal unconscious to consciousness, 
the analysis makes the subject aware of things which he 
is generally aware of in others, but never in himself. This 
discovery makes him therefore less individually unique, 
and more collective. His collectivization is not always a 
u Pierre Janet, Les Nivroses (Paris, 1898). 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 95 

step to the bad; it may sometimes be a step to the good. 
There are people who repress their good qualities and con- 
sciously give free rein to their infantile desires. The lifting 
of personal repressions at first brings purely personal con- 
tents into consciousness; but attached to them are the col- 
lective elements of the unconscious, the ever-present in- 
stincts, qualities, and ideas (images) as well as all those 
"statistical" quotas of average virtue and average vice 
which we recognize when we say, "Everyone has in him 
something of the criminal, the genius, and the saint." Thus 
a living picture emerges, containing pretty well everything 
that moves upon the checkerboard of the world, the good 
and the bad, the fair and the foul. A sense of solidarity 
with the world is gradually built up, which is felt by many 
natures as something very positive and in certain cases 
actually is the deciding factor in the treatment of neurosis. 
I have myself seen cases who, in this condition, managed 
for the first time in their lives to arouse love, and even to 
experience it themselves; or, by daring to leap into the 
unknown, they get involved in the very fate for which they 
were suited. I have seen not a few who, taking this condi- 
tion as final, remained for years in a state of enterprising 
euphoria. I have often heard such cases referred to as 
shining examples of analytical therapy. But I must point 
out that cases of this euphoric and enterprising type are 
so utterly lacking in differentiation from the world that 
nobody could pass them as fundamentally cured. To my 
way of thinking they are as much cured as not cured. I 
have had occasion to follow up the lives of such patients, 
and it must be owned that many of them showed symptoms 
of maladjustment, which, if persisted in, gradually leads 
to the sterility and monotony so characteristic of those 
who have divested themselves of their egos. Here too I 
am speaking of the border-line cases, and not of the less 
valuable, normal, average folk for whom the question of 
adaptation is more technical than problematical. If 1 were 
more of a therapist than an investigator, 1 would naturally 

$6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

be unable to check a certain optimism of judgment, be- 
cause my eyes v? ould then be glued to the number of cures. 
But my conscience as an investigator is concerned not with 
quantity but with quality. Nature is aristocratic, and one 
person of value outweighs ten lesser ones. My eye fol- 
lowed the valuable people, and from them I learned the 
dubiousness of the results of a purely personal analysis, 
and also to understand the reasons for this dubiousness. 
If, through assimilation of the unconscious, we make the 
mistake of including the collective psyche in the inventory 
of personal psychic functions, a dissolution of the per- 
sonality into its paired opposites inevitably follows. Besides 
the pair of opposites already discussed, megalomania and 
the sense of inferiority, which are so painfully evident in 
neurosis, there are many others, from which I will single 
out only the specifically moral pair of opposites, namely 
good and evil. The specific virtues and vices of humanity 
are contained in the collective psyche like everything else. 
One man arrogates collective virtue to himself as his per- 
sonal merit, another takes collective vice as his personal 
guilt. Both are as illusory as the megalomania and the 
inferiority, because the imaginary virtues and the imag- 
inary wickednesses are simply the moral pair of opposites 
contained in the collective psyche, which have become 
perceptible or have been rendered conscious artificially. 
How much these paired opposites are contained in the 
collective psyche is exemplified by primitives: one ob- 
server will extol the greatest virtues in them, while an- 
other will record the very worst impressions of the self- 
same tribe. For the primitive, whose personal differentia- 
tion is, as we know, only just beginning, both judgments 
are true, because his psyche is essentially collective and 
therefore for the most part unconscious. He is still more 
or less identical with the collective psyche, and for that 
reason shares equally in the collective virtues and vices, 
without any personal attribution and without inner con- 
tradiction. The contradiction arises only when the personal 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 97 

development of the psyche begins, and when reason dis- 
covers the irreconcilable nature of the opposites. The con- 
sequence of this discovery is the conflict of repression. We 
want to be good, and therefore must repress evil; and with 
that the paradise of the collective psyche comes to an end. 
Repression of the collective psyche was absolutely neces- 
sary for the development of personality. In primitives, 
development of personality, or more accurately, develop- 
ment of the person, is a question of magical prestige. The 
figure of the medicine-man or chief leads the way: both 
make themselves conspicuous by the singularity of their 
ornaments and their mode of life, expressive of their social 
roles. The singularity of his outward tokens marks the 
individual off from the rest, and the segregation is still 
further enhanced by the possession of special ritual secrets. 
By these and similar means the primitive creates around 
him a shell, which might be called a persona (mask). 
Masks, as we know, are actually used among primitives in 
totem ceremonies — for instance, as a means of enhancing 
or changing the personality. In this way the outstanding 
individual is apparently removed from the sphere of the 
collective psyche, and to the degree that he succeeds in 
identifying himself with his persona, he actually is re- 
moved. This removal means magical prestige. One could 
easily assert that the impelling motive in this development 
is the will to power. But that would be to forget that the 
building up of prestige is always a product of collective 
compromise: not only must there be one who wants pres- 
tige, there must also be a public seeking somebody on 
whom to confer prestige. That being so, it would be in- 
correct to say that a man creates prestige for himself out 
of his individual will to power; it is on the contrary an 
entirely collective affair. Since society as a whole needs 
the magically cfTective figure, it uses this need of the will 
to power in the individual, and the will to submit in the 
mass, as a vehicle, and thus brings about the creation of 
personal prestige. The latter is a phenomenon which, as 

gS : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

the history of political institutions shows, is of the utmost 
importance for the comity of nations. 

The importance of personal prestige can hardly be over- 
estimated, because the possibility of regressive dissolution 
in the collective psyche is a very real danger, not only for 
the outstanding individual but also for his followers. This 
possibility is most likely to occur when the goal of prestige 
— universal recognition — has been reached. The person 
then becomes a collective truth, and that is always the be- 
ginning of the end. To gain prestige is a positive achieve- 
ment not only for the outstanding individual but also for 
the clan. The individual distinguishes himself by his deeds, 
the many by their renunciation of power. So long as this 
attitude needs to be fought for and defended against hostile 
influences, the achievement remains positive; but as soon 
as there are no more obstacles a.nd universal recognition 
has been attained, prestige loses its positive value and 
usually becomes a dead letter. A schismatic movement 
then sets in, and the whole process begins again from the 

Because personality is of such paramount importance 
for the life of the community, everything likely to disturb 
its development is sensed as a danger. But the greatest 
danger of all is the premature dissolution of prestige by 
an invasion of the collective psyche. Absolute secrecy is 
one of the best known primitive means of exorcising this 
danger. Collective thinking and feeling and collective effort 
are far less of a strain than individual functioning and 
effort; hence there is always a great temptation to allow 
collective functioning to take the place of individual dif- 
ferentiation of the personality. Once the personality has 
been differentiated and safeguarded by magical prestige, its 
levelling down and eventual dissolution in the collective 
psyche (e.g., Peter's denial) occasion a "loss of soul" in 
the individual, because an important personal achievement 
has been cither neglected or allowed to slip into regression. 
For this reason taboo infringements are followed by Dra- 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 99 

conian punishments altogether in keeping with the serious- 
ness of the situation. So long as we regard these things 
from the causal point of view, as mere historical survivals 
and metastases of the incest taboo, 1 '* it is impossible to 
understand what all these measures are for. If, however, 
we approach the problem from the tclcological point of 
view, much that was quite inexplicable becomes clear. 

For the development of personality, then, strict differen- 
tiation from the collective psyche is absolutely necessary, 
since partial or blurred differentiation leads to an immedi- 
ate melting away of the individual in the collective. There 
is now a danger that in the analysis of the unconscious 
the collective and the personal psyche may be fused to- 
gether, with, as I have intimated, highly unfortunate re- 
sults. These results are injurious both to the patient's life- 
feeling and to his fellow men, if he has any influence at 
all on his environment. Through his identification with 
the collective psyche he will infallibly try to force the de- 
mands of his unconscious upon others, for identity with 
the collective psyche always brings with it a feeling of 
universal validity — "godlikcness 1 ' — which completely ig- 
nores all differences in the personal psyche of his fellows. 
(The feeling of universal validity comes, of course, from 
the universality of the collective psyche.) A collective atti- 
tude naturally presupposes this same collective psyche in 
others. But that means a ruthless disregard not only of 
individual differences but also of differences of a more 
general kind within the collective psyche itself, as for ex- 
ample differences of race. 14 This disregard for individuality 

,:l Sigmuncl Freud, Totem and Taboo, translated by J. Sirachey (Lon- 
don, 1950). 

n Thus it is a quite unpardonable mistake to accept the conclusions 
of a Jewish psychology as generally valid. Nobody would dream of 
taking Chinese or Indian psychology as binding upon 0111 selves. The 
cheap accusation of anii-Scmilism that has been levelled at me on 
the ground of this criticism is about as intelligent as accusing me of 
an anli-Chinese prejudice. No doubt, on an earlier and deeper level 
of psychic development, where it is still impossible to distinguish 
between an Aryan, Semitic, Hamilic, or Mongolian mentality, all 

ioo : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

obviously means the suffocation of the single individual, 
as a consequence of which the element of differentiation 
is obliterated from the community. The element of differ- 
entiation is the individual. All the highest achievements of 
virtue, as well as the blackest villainies, are individual. The 
larger a community is, and the more the sum total of 
collective factors peculiar to every large community rests 
on conservative prejudices detrimental to individuality, the 
more will the individual be morally and spiritually crushed, 
and, as a result, the one source of moral and spiritual 
progress for society is choked up. Naturally the only thing 
that can thrive in such an atmosphere is sociality and 
whatever is collective in the individual. Everything individ- 
ual in him goes under, i.e., is doomed to repression. The 
individual elements lapse into the unconscious, where, by 
the law of necessity, they are transformed into something 
essentially baleful, destructive, and anarchical. Socially, 
this evil principle shows itself in the spectacular crimes — 
regicide and the like — perpetrated by certain prophetically- 
inclined individuals; but in the great mass of the commu- 
nity it remains in the background, and only manifests 
itself indirectly in the inexorable moral degeneration of so- 
ciety. It is a notorious fact that the morality of society as 
a whole is in inverse ratio to its size; for the greater the 
aggregation of individuals, the more the individual factors 
are blotted out, and with them morality, which rests en- 
tirely on the moral sense of the individual and the freedom 
necessary for this. Hence every man is, in a certain sense, 
unconsciously a worse man when he is in society than when 
acting alone; for he is carried by society and to that extent 
relieved of his individual responsibility. Any large com- 
pany composed of wholly admirable persons has the moral- 
human races have a common collective psyche. But with the begin- 
ning of racial differentiation essential differences are developed in 
the collective psyche as well. For this reason we cannot transplant 
the spirit of a foreign race in globo into our own mentality without 
sensible injury to the latter, a fact which does not, however, deter 
sundry natures of feeble instinct from affecting Indian philosophy 
and the like. 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : ioi 

ity and intelligence of an unwieldy, stupid, and violent 
animal. The bigger the organization, the more unavoid- 
able is its immorality and blind stupidity (Senatus bestia, 
senatores boni viri) . Society, by automatically stressing all 
the collective qualities in its individual representatives, puts 
a premium on mediocrity, on everything that settles down 
to vegetate if* an easy, irresponsible way. Individuality 
will inevitably be driven to the wall. This process begins 
in school, continues at the university, and rules all depart- 
ments in which the State has a hand. In a small social body, 
the individuality of its members is better safeguarded, and 
the greater is their relative freedom and the possibility of 
conscious responsibility. Without freedom there can be no 
morality. Our admiration for great organizations dwindles 
when once we become aware of the other side of the won- 
der: the tremendous piling up and accentuation of all that 
is primitive in man, and the unavoidable destruction of 
his individuality in the interests of the monstrosity that 
every great organization in fact is. The man of today, who 
resembles more or less the collective ideal, has made his 
heart into a den of murderers, as can easily be proved by 
the analysis of his unconscious, even though he himself is 
not in the least disturbed by it. And in so far as he is 
normally "adapted" {t> to his environment, it is true that 
the greatest infamy on the part of his group will not dis- 
turb him, so long as the majority of his fellows steadfastly 
believe in the exalted morality of their social organization. 
Now, all that I have said here about the influence of society 
upon the individual is identically true of the influence of 
the collective unconscious upon the individual psyche. But, 
as is apparent from my examples, the latter influence is 
as invisible as the former is visible. Hence it is not sur- 
prising that its inner effects are not understood, and that 
those to whom such things happen arc called pathological 
freaks and treated as crazy. If one of them happened to 

T!i Cf. "adjustment" and "adaptation" in Psychological Types (Col- 
lected Works, Vol. 6), par. 564. 

102 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

be a real genius, the fact would not be noted until the 
next generation or the one after. So obvious does it seem 
to us that a man should drown in his own dignity, so 
utterly incomprehensible that he should seek anything 
other than what the mob wants, and that he should vanish 
permanently from view in this other. One could wish both 
of them a sense of humour, that — according to Schopen- 
hauer — truly "divine" attribute of man which alone befits 
him to maintain his soul in freedom. 

The collective instincts and fundamental forms of think- 
ing and feeling whose activity is revealed by the analysis 
of the unconscious constitute, for the conscious personal- 
ity, an acquisition which it cannot assimilate without con- 
siderable disturbance. It is therefore of the utmost im- 
portance in practical treatment to keep the integrity of the 
personality constantly in mind. For, if the collective psyche 
is taken to be the personal possession of the individual, it 
will result in a distortion or an overloading of the per- 
sonality which is very difficult to deal with. Hence it is 
imperative to make a clear distinction between personal 
contents and those of the collective psyche. This distinc- 
tion is far from easy, because the personal grows out of 
the collective psyche and is intimately bound up with it. 
So it is difficult to say exactly what contents are to be 
called personal and what collective. There is no doubt, 
for instance, that archaic symbolisms such as we fre- 
quently find in fantasies and dreams are collective factors. 
All basic instincts and basic forms of thinking and feeling 
are collective. Everything that all men agree in regarding 
as universal is collective, likewise everything that is uni- 
versally understood, universally found, universally said 
and done. On closer examination one is always astonished 
to sec how much of our so-called individual psychology is 
really collective. So much, indeed, that the individual traits 
are completely overshadowed by it. Since, however, in- 
dividuation 10 is an ineluctable psychological necessity, we 

10 Ibid., Def. 29: 'individuation is a process of differentiation, 
having for its goal the development of the individual personality." 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 103 

can see from the ascendancy of the collective what very 
special attention must be paid to this delicate plant "in- 
dividuality" if it is not to be completely smothered. 

Human beings have one faculty which, though it is of 
the greatest utility for collective purposes, is most perni- 
cious for individuation, and that is the faculty of imitation. 
Collective psychology cannot dispense with imitation, for 
without it all mass organizations, the State and the social 
order, are impossible. Society is organized, indeed, less by 
law than by the propensity to imitation, implying equally 
suggestibility, suggestion, and mental contagion. But we 
see every day how people use, or rather abuse, the mecha- 
nism of imitation for the purpose of personal differentia- 
tion: they are content to. ape some eminent personality, 
some striking characteristic or mode of behaviour, thereby 
achieving an outward distinction from the circle in which 
they move. We could almost say that as a punishment for 
this the uniformity of their minds with those of their neigh- 
bours, already real enough, is intensified into an uncon- 
scious, compulsive bondage to the environment. As a rule 
these specious attempts at individual differentiation stiffen 
into a pose, and the imitator remains at the same level as 
he always was, only several degrees more sterile than be- 
fore. To find out what is truly individual in ourselves, pro- 
found reflection is needed; and suddenly we realize how 
uncommonly difficult the discovery of individuality is. 


The Persona as a Segment of 
the Collective Psyche 

In this chapter we come to a problem which, if over- 
looked, is liable to cause the greatest confusion. It will be 
remembered that in the analysis of the personal uncon- 

— "Since the individual is not only a single entity, but also, by his 
very existence, presupposes a collective relationship, the process of 
individuation does not lead to isolation, but to an intenscr and more 
universal collective solidarity." 

104 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

scious the first things to be added to consciousness are 
the personal contents, and I suggested that these contents, 
which have been repressed but are capable of becoming 
conscious, should be called the personal unconscious, I 
also showed that to annex the deeper layers of the un- 
conscious, which I have called the collective unconscious, 
produces an enlargement of the personality leading to the 
state of inflation. This state is reached by simply con- 
tinuing the analytical work, as in the case of the young 
woman discussed above. By continuing the analysis we 
add to the personal consciousness certain fundamental, 
general, and impersonal characteristics of humanity, 
thereby bringing about the inflation 17 I have just described, 
which might be regarded as one of the unpleasant con- 
sequences of becoming fully conscious. 

17 This phenomenon, which results from the extension of conscious- 
ness, is in no sense specific to analytical treatment. It occurs when- 
ever people are overpowered by knowledge or by some new realiza- 
tion. "Knowledge puffcth up," Paul writes to the Corinthians, for 
the new knowledge had turned the heads of many, as indeed con- 
stantly happens. The inflation has nothing to do with the kind of 
knowledge, but simply and solely with the fact that any new know- 
ledge can so seize hold of a weak head that he no longer sees and 
hears anything else. He is hypnotized by it, and instantly believes 
he has solved the riddle of the universe. But that is equivalent to 
almighty self-conceit. This process is such a general reaction that, 
in Genesis 2:17, eating of the tree of knowledge is represented as 
a deadly sin. It may not be immediately apparent why greater con- 
sciousness followed by self-conceit should be such a dangerous thing. 
Genesis represents the act of becoming conscious as a taboo infringe- 
ment, as though knowledge meant that a sacrosanct barrier had been 
impiously overstepped. 1 think that Genesis is right in so far as every 
step towards greater consciousness is a kind of Promethean guilt: 
through knowledge, the gods are as it were robbed of their fire, 
that is, something that was the property of the unconscious powers 
is torn out of Us natural context and subordinated to the whims of 
the conscious mind. The man who has usurped the new knowledge 
suffers, however, a transformation or enlargement of consciousness, 
which no longer resembles that of his fellow men. He has raised 
himself above the human level of his age ("ye shall become like 
unto God ) but in so doing has alienated himself from humanity, 
inc pain of this loneliness is the vengeance of the gods, for never 
again can he return to mankind. He is, as the myth says, chained 
to the lonely cliffs of the Caucasus, forsaken of God and man. 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 105 

From this point of view the conscious personality is a 
more or less arbitrary segment of the collective psyche. 
It consists in a sum of psychic facts that are felt to be 
personal. The attribute "personal" means: pertaining ex- 
clusively to this particular person. A consciousness that 
is purely personal stresses its proprietary and original 
right to its contents with a certain anxiety, and in this way 
seeks to create a whole. But all thoL-c contents that refuse 
to fit into this whole are either overlooked and forgotten 
or repressed and denied. This is one way of educating 
oneself, but it is too arbitrary and too much of a violation. 
Far too much of our common humanity has to be sacrificed 
in the interests of an ideal image into which one tries to 
mould oneself. Hence these purely "personal" people are 
always very sensitive, for something may easily happen 
that will bring into consciousness an unwelcome portion 
of their real ("individual") character. 

This arbitrary segment of collective psyche — often fash- 
ioned with considerable pains — I have called the persona. 
The term persona is really a very appropriate expression 
for this, for originally it meant the mask once worn by 
actors to indicate the role they played. If we endeavour to 
draw a precise distinction between what psychic material 
should be considered personal, and what impersonal, we 
soon find ourselves in the greatest dilemma, for by defini- 
tion we have to say of the persona's contents what we 
have said of the impersonal unconscious, namely, that it 
is collective. It is only because the persona represents a 
more or less arbitrary and fortuitous segment of the col- 
lective psyche that we can make the mistake of regarding 
it in toto as something individual. It is, as its name im- 
plies, only a mask of the collective psyche, a mask that 
feigns individuality, making others and oneself believe that 
one is individual, whereas one is simply acting a role 
through which the collective psyche speaks. 

When we analyze the persona we strip off the mask, and 
discover that what seemed to be individual is at bottom 

w6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

collective; in other words, that the persona was only a 
mask of the collective psyche. Fundamentally the persona 
is nothing real: it is a compromise between individual and 
society as to what a man should appear to be. He takes a 
name, earns a title, exercises a function, he is this or that. 
In a certain sense all this is real, yet in relation to the 
essential individuality of the person concerned it is only 
a secondary reality, a compromise formation, in making 
which others often have a greater share than he. The per- 
sona is a semblance, a two-dimensional reality, to give it 
a nickname. 

It would be wrong to leave the matter as it stands with- 
out at the same time recognizing that there is, after all, 
something individual in the peculiar choice and delineation 
of the persona, and that despite the exclusive identity of 
the ego-consciousness with the persona the unconscious 
self, one's real individuality, is always present and makes 
itself felt indirectly if not directly. Although the ego-con- 
sciousness is at first identical with the persona — that com- 
promise role in which we parade before the community — 
yet the unconscious self can never be repressed to the 
point of extinction. Its influence is chiefly manifest in the 
special nature of the contrasting and compensating con- 
tents of the unconscious. The purely personal attitude of 
the conscious mind evokes reactions on the part of the 
unconscious, and these, together with personal repressions, 
contain the seeds of individual development in the guise of 
collective fantasies. Through the analysis of the personal 
unconscious, the conscious mind becomes suffused with 
collective material which brings with it the elements of 
individuality. I am well aware that this conclusion must 
be almost unintelligible to anyone not familiar with my 
views and technique, and particularly so to those who 
habitually regard the unconscious from the standpoint of 
Freudian theory. But if the reader will recall my example 
of the philosophy student, he can form a rough idea of 
what 1 mean. At the beginning of the treatment the patient 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 107 

was quite unconscious of the fact that her relation to her 
father was a fixation, and that she was therefore seeking a 
man like her father, whom she could then meet with her 
intellect. This in itself would not have been a mistake if 
her intellect had not had that peculiarly protesting char- 
acter such as is unfortunately often encountered in in- 
tellectual women. Such an intellect is always trying to 
point out mistakes in others; it is pre-eminently critical, 
with a disagreeably personal undertone, yet it always wants 
to be considered objective. This invariably makes a man 
bad-tempered, particularly if, as so often happens, the 
criticism touches on some weak spot which, in the interests 
of fruitful discussion, were better avoided. But far from 
wishing the discussion to be fruitful, it is the unfortunate 
peculiarity of this feminine intellect to seek out a man's 
weak spots, fasten on them, and exasperate him. This is 
not usually a conscious aim, but rather has the uncon- 
scious purpose of forcing a man into a superior position 
and thus making him an object of admiration. The man 
does not as a rule notice that he is having the role of the 
hero thrust upon him; he merely finds her taunts so odious 
that in future he will go a long way to avoid meeting the 
lady, in the end the only man who can stand her is the 
one who gives in at the start, and therefore has nothing 
wonderful about him. 

My patient naturally found much to reflect upon in all 
this, for she had no notion of the game she was playing. 
Moreover she still had to gain insight into the regular 
romance that had been enacted between her and her father 
ever since childhood. It would lead us too far to describe 
in detail how, from her earliest years, with unconscious 
sympathy, she had played upon the shadow-side of her 
father which her mother never saw, and how, far in ad- 
vance of her years, she became her mother's rival. All this 
came to light in the analysis of the personal unconscious. 
Since, if only for professional reasons, 1 could not allow 
myself to be irritated, I inevitably became the hero and 

ioS : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

father-lover. The transference too consisted at first of con- 
tents from the personal unconscious. My role as a hero 
was just a sham, and so, as it turned me into the merest 
phantom, she was able to play her traditional role of the 
supremely wise, very grown-up, all-understanding mother- 
daughter-beloved — an empty role, a persona behind which 
her real and authentic being, her individual self, lay hid- 
den. Indeed, to the extent that she at first completely iden- 
tified herself with her role, she was altogether unconscious 
of her real self. She was still in her nebulous infantile world 
and had not yet discovered the real world at all. But as, 
through progressive analysis, she became conscious of the 
nature of her transference, the dreams I ^poke of in Chap- 
ter 1 began to materialize. They brought up bits of the 
collective unconscious, and that was the end of her in- 
fantile world and of all the heroics. She came to herself 
and to her own real potentialities. This is roughly the way 
things go in most cases, if the analysis is carried far 
enough. That the consciousness of her individuality should 
coincide exactly with the reactivation of an archaic god- 
image is not just an isolated coincidence, but a very fre- 
quent occurrence which, in my view, corresponds to an 
unconscious law. 

After this digression, let us turn back to our earlier re- 

Once the personal repressions are lifted, the individuality 
and the collective psyche begin to emerge in a coalescent 
state, thus releasing the hitherto repressed personal fan- 
tasies. The fantasies and dreams which now appear assume 
a somewhat different aspect. An infallible sign of collec- 
tive images seems to be the appearance of the "cosmic" 
clement, i.e., the images in the dream or fantasy are con- 
nected with cosmic qualities, such as temporal and spatial 
infinity, enormous speed and extension of movement, "as- 
trological" associations, telluric, lunar, and solar analogies, 
changes in the proportions of the body, etc. The obvious 
occurrence of mythological and religious motifs in a dream 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 109 

also points to the activity of the collective unconscious. 
The collective element is very often announced by peculiar 
symptoms, 18 as for example by dreams where the dreamer 
is flying through space like a comet, or feels that he is 
the earth, or the sun, or a star; or else is of immense size, 
or dwarflshly small; or that he is dead, is in a strange 
place, is a stranger to himself, confused, mad, etc. Simi- 
larly, feelings of disorientation, of dizziness and the like, 
may appear along with symptoms of inflation. 

The forces that burst out of the collective psyche have 
a confusing and blinding effect. One result of the dissolu- 
tion of the persona is a release of involuntary fantasy, 
which is apparently nothing else than the specific activity 
of the collective psyche. This activity throws up contents 
whose existence one had never suspected before. But as 
the influence of the collective unconscious increases, so 
the conscious mind loses its power of leadership. Imper- 
ceptibly it becomes the led, while an unconscious and im- 
personal process gradually takes control. Thus, without 
noticing it, the conscious personality is pushed about like 
a figure on a chess-board by an invisible player. It is this 
player who decides the game of fate, not the conscious 
mind and its plans. This is how the resolution of the trans- 
ference, apparently so impossible to the conscious mind, 
was brought about in my earlier example. 

The plunge into this process becomes unavoidable when- 
ever the necessity arises of overcoming an apparently in- 
superable difficulty. It goes without saying that this neces- 
sity does not occur in every case of neurosis, since perhaps 
in the majority the prime consideration is only the removal 
of temporary difficulties of adaptation. Certainly severe 
cases cannot be cured without a far-reaching change of 
character or of attitude. In by far the greater number, 

*" It may not be superfluous to note that collective elements in dreams 
are not restricted to this stage of the analytical treatment. There are 
many psychological situations in which the activity of the collective 
unconscious can come to the surface. 13 ut this is not the place to 
enlarge upon these conditions. 

no : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

adaptation to external reality demands so much work that 
inner adaptation to the collective unconscious cannot be 
considered for a very long time. But when this inner adap- 
tation becomes a problem, a strange, irresistible attraction 
proceeds from the unconscious and exerts a powerful in- 
fluence on the conscious direction of life. The predomi- 
nance of unconscious influences, together with the asso- 
ciated disintegration of the persona and the deposition of 
the conscious mind from power, constitute a state of psy- 
chic disequilibrium which, in analytical treatment, is arti- 
ficially induced for the therapeutic purpose of resolving a 
difficulty that might block further development. There are 
of course innumerable obstacles that can be overcome with 
good advice and a little moral support, aided by goodwill 
and understanding on the part of the patient. Excellent 
curative results can be obtained in this way. Cases are not 
uncommon where there is no need to breathe a word about 
the unconscious. But again, there are difficulties for which 
one can foresee no satisfactory solution. If in these cases 
the psychic equilibrium is not already disturbed before 
treatment begins, it will certainly be upset during the 
analysis, and sometimes without any interference by the 
doctor. It often seems as though these patients had only 
been waiting to find a trustworthy person in order to give 
up and collapse. Such a loss of balance is similar in prin- 
ciple to a psychotic disturbance; that is, it differs from the 
initial stages of mental illness only by the fact that it leads 
in the end to greater health, while the latter leads to yet 
greater destruction. It is a condition of panic, a letting go 
in face of apparently hopeless complications. Mostly it 
was preceded by desperate efforts to master the difficulty 
by force of will; then came the collapse, and the once 
guiding will crumbles completely. The energy thus freed 
disappears from consciousness and falls into the uncon- 
scious. As a matter of fact, it is at these moments that 
the first signs of unconscious activity appear. (1 am think- 
ing of the example of that young man who was weak in 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : m 

the head.) Obviously the energy that fell away from con- 
sciousness has activated the unconscious. The immediate 
result is a change of attitude. One can easily imagine that 
a stronger head would have taken that vision of the stars 
as a healing apparition, and would have looked upon hu- 
man suffering sub specie aeternitatis, in which case his 
senses would have been restored. 19 

Had this happened, an apparently insurmountable ob- 
stacle would have been removed. Hence I regard the loss 
of balance as purposive, since it replaces a defective con- 
sciousness by the automatic and instinctive activity of the 
unconscious, which is aiming all the time at the creation 
of a new balance and will moreover achieve this aim, pro- 
vided that the conscious mind is capable of assimilating 
the contents produced by the unconscious, i.e., of under- 
standing and digesting them. If the unconscious simply 
rides roughshod over the conscious mind, a psychotic con- 
dition develops. If it can neither completely prevail nor 
yet be understood, the result is a conflict that cripples all 
further advance. But with this question, namely the under- 
standing of the collective unconscious, we come to a for- 
midable difficulty which I have made the theme of my next 


Negative Attempts to Free 
the Individuality from 
the Collective Psyche 

a. Regressive Restoration of the Persona 

A collapse of the conscious attitude is no small matter. 
It always feels like the end of the world, as though every- 

,w Cf. Theodore Flournoy, "Aulomatisme teleologique anlisuicide: 
un cas dc suicide cmpcche" par line hallucination," Archives cle 
Psychologic, VIII (1907), 113-37; and Jung, "The Psychology of 
Dementia Praeeox" {Collected Works, Vol. 3), pars. 304ft. 

U2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

thing had tumbled back into original chaos. One feels de- 
livered up, disoriented, like a rudderless ship that is aban- 
doned to the moods of the elements. So at least it seems. 
In reality, however, one has fallen back upon the collective 
unconscious, which now takes over the leadership. We 
could multiply examples of cases where, at the critical 
moment, a "saving" thought, a vision, an "inner voice," 
came with an irresistible power of conviction and gave 
life a new direction. Probably we could mention just as 
many cases where the collapse meant a catastrophe that 
destroyed life, for at such moments morbid ideas are also 
liable to take root, or ideals wither away, which is no less 
disastrous. In the one case some psychic oddity develops, 
or a psychosis; in the other, a state of disorientation and 
demoralization. But once the unconscious contents break 
through into consciousness, filling it with their uncanny 
power of conviction, the question arises of how the in- 
dividual will re,act. Will he be overpowered by these con- 
tents? Will he credulously accept them? Or will he reject 
them? (I am disregarding the ideal reaction, namely critical 
understanding.) The first case signifies paranoia or schizo- 
phrenia; the second may either become an eccentric with 
a taste for prophecy, or he may revert to an infantile atti- 
tude and be cut off from human society; the third signifies 
the regressive restoration of the persona. This formulation 
sounds very technical, and the reader may justifiably sup- 
pose that it has something to do with a complicated psy- 
chic reaction such as can be observed in the course of 
analytical treatment. It would, however, be a mistake to 
think that cases of this kind make their appearance only 
in analytical treatment. The process can be observed just 
as well, and often better, in other situations of life, namely 
in all those careers where there has been some violent and 
destructive intervention of fate. Every one, presumably, 
has suffered adverse turns of fortune, but mostly they are 
wounds that heal and leave no crippling mark. But here 
we are concerned with experiences that are destructive, 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 113 

that can smash a man completely or at least cripple him 
for good. Let us take as an example a businessman who 
takes too great a risk and consequently becomes bankrupt. 
If he does not allow himself to be discouraged by this de- 
pressing experience, but, undismayed, keeps his former 
daring, perhaps with a little salutary caution added, his 
wound will be healed without permanent injury. But if, 
on the other hand, he goes to pieces, abjures all further 
risks, and laboriously tries to patch up his social reputation 
within the confines of a much more limited personality, 
doing inferior work with the mentality of a scared child, 
in a post far below him, then, technically speaking, he will 
have restored his persona in a regressive way. He will as 
a result of his fright have slipped back to an earlier phase 
of his personality; he will have demeaned himself, pre- 
tending that he is as he was before the crucial experience, 
though utterly unable even to think of repeating such a 
risk. Formerly perhaps he wanted more than he could 
accomplish; now he does not even dare to attempt what 
he has it in him to do. 

Such experiences occur in every walk of life and in every 
possible form, hence in psychological treatment also. Here 
again it is a question of widening the personality, of taking 
a risk on one's circumstances or on one's nature. What the 
critical experience is in actual treatment can be seen from 
the case of our philosophy student: it is the transference. 
As I have already indicated, it is possible for the patient to 
slip over the reef of the transference unconsciously, in 
which case it does not become an experience and nothing 
fundamental happens. The doctor, for the sake of mere 
convenience, might well wish for such patients. But if they 
are intelligent, the patients soon discover the existence of 
this problem for themselves. If then the doctor, as in the 
above case, is exalted into the father-lover and conse- 
quently has a flood of demands let loose against him, he 
must perforce think out ways and means of parrying the 
onslaught, without himself getting drawn into the mael- 

114 ' Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

strom and without injury to the patient. A violent rupture 
of the transference may bring on a complete relapse, or 
worse; so the problem must be handled with great tact and 
foresight. Another possibility is the pious hope that "in 
time" the "nonsense" will stop of its own accord. Cer- 
tainly everything stops in time, but it may be an uncon- 
scionably long time, and the difficulties may be so unbear- 
able for both sides that one might as well give up the idea 
of time as a healing factor at once. 

A far better instrument for "combatting" the transfer- 
ence would seem to be offered by the Freudian theory of 
neurosis. The dependence of the patient is explained as an 
infantile sexual demand that takes the place of a rational 
application of sexuality. Similar advantages are offered by 
the Adlerian theory, 20 which explains the transference as 
an infantile power-aim, and as a "security measure." Both 
theories fit the neurotic mentality so neatly that every case 
of neurosis can be explained by both theories at once. 21 
This highly remarkable fact, which any unprejudiced ob- 
server is bound to corroborate, can only rest on the cir- 
cumstance that Freud's "infantile eroticism" and Adler's 
"power drive" are one and the same thing, regardless of 
the clash of opinions between the two schools. It is simply 
a fragment of uncontrolled, and at first uncontrollable, 
primordial instinct that comes to light in the phenomenon 
of transference. The archaic fantasy-forms that gradually 
reach the surface of consciousness are only a further proof 
of this. 

We can try both theories to make the patient see how 
infantile, impossible, and absurd his demands are, and 
perhaps in the end he will actually come to his senses 
again. My patient, however, was not the only one who did 
not do this. True enough, the doctor can always save his 
face with these theories and extricate himself from a pain- 

» Alfred Adlcr, The Neurotic Constitution, originally published 
1912, translated by H. Glucck and J. E. Lind (London, 1921). 
*'Cf. "On the Psychology of the Unconscious" (Collected Works, 
Vol. 7), pars. 44ft., for an example of such a case. 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 115 

ful situation more or less humanely. There are indeed pa- 
tients with whom it is, or seems to be, unrewarding to go 
to greater lengths; but there are also cases where these 
procedures cause senseless psychic injury. In the case of 
my student I dimly felt something of the sort, and I there- 
fore abandoned my rationalistic attempts in order — with 
ill-concealed mistrust — to give nature a chance to correct 
what seemed to me to be her own foolishness. As already 
mentioned, this taught me something extraordinarily im- 
portant, namely the existence of an unconscious self- 
regulation. Not only can the unconscious "wish," it can 
also cancel its own wishes. This realization, of such im- 
mense importance for the integrity of the personality, must 
remain sealed to anyone who cannot get over the idea that 
it is simply a question of infantilism. He will turn round 
on the threshold of this realization and tell himself: "It 
was all nonsense of course. I am a crazy visionary! The 
best thing to do would be to bury the unconscious or throw 
it overboard with all its works." The meaning and purpose 
he so eagerly desired he will see only as infantile maunder- 
ings. He will understand that his longing was absurd; he 
learns to be tolerant with himself, resigned. What can he 
do? Rather than face the conflict he will turn back and, as 
best he can, regressively restore his shattered persona, 
discounting all those hopes and expectations that had 
blossomed under the transference. He will become smaller, 
more limited, more rationalistic than he was before. One 
could not say that this result would be an unqualified 
misfortune in all cases, for there are all too many who, 
on account of their notorious ineptitude, thrive better in 
a rationalistic system than in freedom. Freedom is one of 
the more difficult things. Those who can stomach this way 
out can say with Faust: 

This earthly circle I know well enough. 
Towards the Beyond the view has been cut ofT; 
Fool — who directs that way his da/zled e)e, 
Contrives himself a double in the sky! 

u6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

Let him look round him here, not stray beyond; 

To a sound man this world must needs respond. 

To roam into eternity is vain! 

What he perceives, he can attain. 

Thus let him walk along his earthlong day; 

Though phantoms haunt him, let him go his way. 22 

Such a solution would be perfect if a man were really 
able to shake off the unconscious, drain it of its energy 
and render it inactive. But experience shows that the un- 
conscious can be deprived of its energy only in part: it 
remains continually active, for it not only contains but is 
itself the source of the libido from which the psychic ele- 
ments flow. It is therefore a delusion to think that by some 
kind of magical theory or method the unconscious can 
be finally emptied of libido and thus, as it were, eliminated. 
One may for a while play with this delusion, but the day 
comes when one is forced to say with Faust: 

But now such spectredom so throngs the air 

That none knows how to dodge it, none knows where. 

Though one day greet us with a rational gleam, 

The night entangles us in webs of dream. 

We come back happy from the fields of spring — 

And a bird croaks. Croaks what? Some evil thing. 

Enmeshed in superstition night and morn, 

It forms and shows itself and comes to warn. 

And we, so scared, stand without friend or kin, 

And the door creaks — and nobody comes in. 123 

Nobody, of his own free will, can strip the unconscious of 
its effective power. At best, one can merely deceive oneself 
on this point. For, as Goethe says: 

Unheard by the outward ear 
In the heart I whisper fear; 
Changing shape from hour to hour 
I employ my savage power. 24 

* fauit, translated by Louis MacNeice (London, 195 1), p. 283 
(Part II, Act V). r 

* Ibid., p. 281 (Part II, Act V). 
-Moid., p. 282 (Part 11, Act V), modified. 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : nj 

Only one thing is effective against the unconscious, and 
that is hard outer necessity. (Those with rather more 
knowledge of the unconscious will see behind the outer 
necessity the same face which once gazed at them from 
within.) An inner necessity can change into an outer one, 
and so long as the outer necessity is real, and not just 
faked, psychic problems remain more or less ineffective. 
This is why Mephisto offers Faust, who is sick of the "mad- 
ness of magic," the following advice: 

Right. There is one way that needs 

No money, no physician, and no witch. 

Pack up your things and get back to the land 

And there begin to dig and ditch; 

Keep to the narrow round, confine your mind, 

And live on fodder of the simplest kind, 

A beast among the beasts; and don't forget 

To use your own dung on the crops you set! - 5 

It is a well-known fact that the ''simple life" cannot be 
faked, and therefore the unproblematical existence of a 
poor man, who really is delivered over to fate, cannot be 
bought by such cheap imitations. Only the man who lives 
such a life not as a mere possibility, but is actually driven 
to it by the necessity of his own nature, will blindly pass 
over the problem of his soul, since he lacks the capacity 
to grasp it. But once he has seen the Faustian problem, 
the escape into the "simple life" is closed for ever. There 
is of course nothing to stop him from taking a two-room 
cottage in the country, or from pottering about in a garden 
and eating raw turnips. But his soul laughs at the deception. 
Only what is really oneself has the power to heal. 

The regressive restoration of the persona is a possible 
course only for the man who owes the critical failure of his 
life to his own inflatedncss. With diminished personality, 
he turns back to the measure he can fill. Brt in every other 
case resignation and selt-bclittlement are an evasion, which 
in the long run can be kept up only at the cost of neurotic 

23 Ibid., p. 67 (Part I, Witch's Kitchen scene), modified. 

u8 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

sickliness. From the conscious point of view of the person 
concerned, his condition does not look like an evasion at 
all, but seems to be due to the impossibility of coping with 
the problem. Usually he is a lonely figure, with little or 
nothing to help him in our present-day culture. Even 
psychology has only purely reductive interpretations to 
offer, since it inevitably underlines the archaic and infantile 
character of these transitional states and makes them un- 
acceptable to him. The fact that a medical theory may also 
serve the purpose of enabling the doctor to pull his own 
head more or less elegantly out of the noose does not occur 
to him. That is precisely why these reductive theories fit 
the essence of neurosis so beautifully — because they are 
of such great service to the doctor. 

b. Identification with the Collective Psyche 

The second way leads to identification with the collective 
psyche. This would amount to an acceptance of inflation, 
but now exalted into a system. That is to say, one would 
be the fortunate possessor of the great truth which was 
only waiting to be discovered, of the eschatological knowl- 
edge which spells the healing of the nations. This attitude 
is not necessarily megalomania in direct form, but in the 
milder and more familiar form of prophetic inspiration 
and desire for martyrdom. For weak-minded persons, who 
as often as not possess more than their fair share of ambi- 
tion, vanity, and misplaced naivete, the danger of yielding 
to this temptation is very great. Access to the collective 
psyche means a renewal of life for the individual, no matter 
whether this renewal is felt as pleasant or unpleasant. 
Everybody would like to hold fast to this renewal: one 
man because it enhances his life-feeling, another because 
it promises a rich harvest of knowledge, a third because he 
has discovered the key that will transform his whole life. 
Therefore all those who do not wish to deprive themselves 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : ng 

of the great treasures that lie buried in the collective psyche 
will strive by every means possible to maintain their newly 
won connection with the primal source of life. 26 Identifica- 
tion would seem to be the shortest road to this, for the 
dissolution of the persona in the collective psyche positively 
invites one to wed oneself with the abyss and blot out all 
memory in its embrace. This piece of mysticism is innate 
in all better men as the "longing for the mother," the 
nostalgia for the source from which we came. 

As I have shown in my book on libido [Symbols of 
Transformation (Collected Works, Vol. 5)], there lie at 
the root of the regressive longing, which Freud conceives 
as "infantile fixation" or the "incest wish," a specific value 
and a specific need which are made explicit in myths. It is 
precisely the strongest and best among men, the heroes, 
who give way to their regressive longing and purposely 
expose themselves to the danger of being devoured by the 
monster of the maternal abyss. But if a man is a hero, he 
is a hero because, in the final reckoning, he did not let 
the monster devour him, but subdued it, not once but 
many times. Victory over the collective psyche alone yields 
the true value — the capture of the hoard, the invincible 
weapon, the magic talisman, or whatever it be that the 
myth deems most desirable. Anyone who identifies with 
the collective psyche — or, in mythological terms, lets him- 
self be devoured by the monster — and vanishes in it, attains 
the treasure that the dragon guards, but he does so in spite 
of himself and to his own greatest harm. 

Probably no one who was conscious of the absurdity of 
this identification would have the courage to make a prin- 
ciple of it. But the danger is that very many people lack 

38 1 would like to call attention here to an interesting remark of 
Kant's. In his lectures on psychology (Vorlesungen ilber Psychologie, 
Leipzig, 1889) he speaks of the "treasure lying within the field of 
dim representations, that deep abyss of human knowledge forever 
beyond our reach." This treasure, as I have demonstrated in my 
Symbols of Transformation (Collected Works, Vol. 5), is the ag- 
gregate of all those primordial images in which the libido is invested, 
or rather, which are self-representations of the libido. 

120 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

the necessary humour, or else it fails them at this partic- 
ular juncture; they are seized by a sort of pathos, every- 
thing seems pregnant with meaning, and all effective self- 
criticism is checked. I would not deny in general the exist- 
ence of genuine prophets, but in the name of caution I 
would begin by doubting each individual case; for it is 
far too serious a matter for us lightly to accept a man as a 
genuine prophet. Every respectable prophet strives man- 
fully against the unconscious pretensions of his role. When 
therefore a prophet appears at a moment's notice, we would 
be better advised to contemplate a possible psychic dis- 

But besides the possibility of becoming a prophet, there 
is another alluring joy, subtler and apparently more legiti- 
mate: the joy of becoming a prophet's disciple. This, for 
the vast majority of people, is an altogether ideal tech- 
nique. Its advantages are: the odium dignitatis, the super- 
human responsibility of the prophet, turns into the so 
much sweeter otium indignitatis. The disciple is unworthy; 
modestly he sits at the Master's feet and guards against 
having ideas of his own. Mental laziness becomes a virtue; 
one can at least bask in the sun of a semidivine being. He 
can enjoy the archaism and infantilism of his unconscious 
fantasies without loss to himself, for all responsibility is 
laid at the Master's door. Through his deification of the 
Master, the disciple, apparently without noticing it, waxes 
in stature; moreover, does he not possess the great truth 
— not his own discovery, of course, but received straight 
from the Master's hands? Naturally the disciples always 
stick together, not out of love, but for the very under- 
standable purpose of effortlessly confirming their own 
convictions by engendering an air of collective agreement. 

Now this is an identification with the collective psyche 
that seems altogether more commendable: somebody else 
has the honour of being a prophet, but also the dangerous 
responsibility. For one's own part, one is a mere disciple, 
but nonetheless a joint guardian of the great treasure 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 121 

which the Master has found. One feels the full dignity and 
burden of such a position, deeming it a solemn duty and 
a moral necessity to revile others not of a like mind, to 
enrol proselytes and to hold up a light to the Gentiles, 
exactly as though one were the prophet oneself. And 
these people, who creep about behind an apparently modest 
persona, are the very ones who, when inflated by identifica- 
tion with the collective psyche, suddenly burst upon the 
world scene. For, just as the prophet is a primordial image 
from the collective psyche, so also is the disciple of the 

In both cases inflation is brought about by the collective 
unconscious, and the independence of the individuality 
suffers injury. But since by no means all individualities 
have the strength to be independent, the disciple-fantasy 
is perhaps the best ihey can accomplish. The gratifications 
of the accompanying inflation at least do something to 
make up for the loss of spiritual freedom. Nor should we 
underestimate the fact that the life of a real or imagined 
prophet is full of sorrows, disappointments, and priva- 
tions, so that the hosanna-shouting band of disciples has 
the value of a compensation. All this is so humanly under- 
standable that it would be a matter for astonishment if it 
led to any further destination whatever. 

Part Two 


The Function of the Unconscious 

There is a destination, a possible goal, beyond the alter- 
native stages dealt with in our last chapter. That is the 
way of individuation. Individuation means becoming an 
"in-dividual," and, in so far as "individuality" embraces our 
innermost, last, and incomparable uniqueness, it also im- 
plies becoming one's own self. We could therefore translate 

122 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

individuation as "coming to selfhood" or "self-realization.'* 
The possibilities of development discussed in the preced- 
ing chapters were, at bottom, alienations of the self, ways 
of divesting the self of its reality in favour of an external 
role or in favour of an imagined meaning. In the former 
case the self retires into the background and gives place to 
social recognition; in the latter, to the auto-suggestive 
meaning of a primordial image. In both cases the collective 
has the upper hand. Self-alienation in favour of the col- 
lective corresponds to a social ideal; it even passes for 
social duty and virtue, although it can also be misused 
for egotistical purposes. Egoists are called "selfish," but 
this, naturally, has nothing to do with the concept of "self" 
as I am using it here. On the other hand, self-realization 
seems to stand in opposition to self-alienation. This mis- 
understanding is quite general, because we do not suffi- 
ciently distinguish between individualism and individuation. 
Individualism means deliberately stressing and giving prom- 
inence to some supposed peculiarity rather than to collec- 
tive considerations and obligations. But individuation means 
precisely the better and more complete fulfilment of the 
collective qualities of the human being, since adequate 
consideration of the peculiarity of the individual is more 
conducive to a better social performance than when the 
peculiarity is neglected or suppressed. The idiosyncrasy of 
an individual is not to be understood as any strangeness 
in his substance or in his components, but rather as a 
unique combination, or gradual differentiation, of functions 
and faculties which in themselves are universal. Every 
human face has a nose, two eyes, etc., but these universal 
factors are variable, and it is this variability which makes 
individual peculiarities possible. Individuation, therefore, 
can only mean a process of psychological development that 
fulfils the individual qualities given; in other words, it is a 
process by which a man becomes the definite, unique being 
he in fact is. In so doing he does not become "selfish" in 
the ordinary sense of the word, but is merely fulfilling the 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 123 

peculiarity of his nature, and this, as we have said, is vastly 
different from egotism or individualism. 

Now in so far as the human individual, as a living unit, is 
composed of purely universal factors, he is wholly collec- 
tive and therefore in no sense opposed to collectivity. 
Hence the individualistic emphasis on one's own peculiarity 
is a contradiction of this basic fact of the living being. In- 
dividuation, on the other hand, aims at a living co-opera- 
tion of all factors. But since the universal factors always 
appear only in individual form, a full consideration of 
them will also produce an individual effect, and one which 
cannot be surpassed by anything else, least of all by in- 

The aim of individuation is nothing less than to divest 
the self of the false wrappings of the persona on the one 
hand, and of the suggestive power of primordial images on 
the other. From what has been said in the previous chapters 
it should be sufficiently clear what the persona means psy- 
chologically. But when we turn to the other side, namely to 
the influence of the collective unconscious, we find we are 
moving in a dark interior world that is vastly more difficult 
to understand than the psychology of the persona, which 
is accessible to everyone. Everyone knows what is meant 
by "putting on official airs" or "playing a social role." 
Through the persona a man tries to appear as this or that, 
or he hides behind a mask, or he may even build up a 
definite persona as a barricade. So the problem of the per- 
sona should present no great intellectual difficulties. 

It is, however, another thing to describe, in a way that 
can be generally understood, those subtle inner processes 
which invade the conscious mind with such suggestive 
force. Perhaps we can best portray these influences with 
the help of examples of mental illness, creative inspiration, 
and religious conversion. A most excellent account — taken 
from life, so to speak — of such an inner transformation is 
to be found in H. G. Wells' Christina Alberta" s Father, 
Changes of a similar kind are described in Leon Daudet's 

124 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

eminently readable L'Heredo. A wide range of material is 
contained in William James' Varieties of Religious Experi- 
ence. Although in many cases of this kind there are certain 
external factors which either directly condition the change, 
or at least provide the occasion for it, yet it is not always 
the case that the external factor offers a sufficient explana- 
tion of these changes of personality. We must recognize 
the fact that they can also arise from subjective inner 
causes, opinions, convictions, where external stimuli play 
no part at all, or a very insignificant one. In pathological 
changes of personality this can even be said to be the rule. 
The cases of psychosis that present a clear and simple 
reaction to some overwhelming outside event belong to the 
exceptions. Hence, for psychiatry, the essential aetiological 
factor is the inherited or acquired pathological disposition. 
The same is probably true of most creative intuitions, for 
we are hardly likely to suppose a purely causal connection 
between the falling apple and Newton's theory of gravita- 
tion. Similarly all religious conversions that cannot be 
traced back directly to suggestion and contagious example 
rest upon independent interior processes culminating in a 
change of personality. As a rule these processes have the 
peculiarity of being subliminal, i.e., unconscious, in the 
first place and of reaching consciousness only gradually. 
The moment of irruption can, however, be very sudden, so 
that consciousness is instantaneously flooded with extremely 
strange and apparently quite unsuspected contents. That is 
how it looks to the layman and even to the person con- 
cerned, but the experienced observer knows that psy- 
chological events are never sudden. In reality the irruption 
has been preparing for many years, often for half a life- 
time, and already in childhood all sorts of remarkable signs 
could have been detected which, in more or less symbolic 
fashion, hinted at abnormal future developments. I am 
reminded, for instance, of a mental case who refused all 
nourishment and created quite extraordinary difficulties in 
connection with nasal feeding. In fact an anaesthetic was 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 123 

necessary before the tube could be inserted. The patient 
was able in some remarkable way to swallow his tongue 
by pressing it back into the throat, a fact that was quite 
new and unknown to me at the time. In a lucid interval I 
obtained the following history from the man. As a boy 
he had often revolved in his mind the idea of how he could 
take his life, even if every conceivable measure were em- 
ployed to prevent him. He first tried to do it by holding 
his breath, until he found that by the time he was in a semi- 
conscious state he had already begun to breathe again. So 
he gave up these attempts and thought: perhaps it would 
work if he refused food. This fantasy satisfied him until 
he discovered that food could be poured into him through 
the nasal cavity. He therefore considered how this entrance 
might be closed, and thus it was that he hit upon the idea 
of pressing his tongue backwards. At first he was unsuccess- 
ful, and so he began a regular training, until at last he 
succeeded in swallowing his tongue in much the same way 
as sometimes happens accidentally during anaesthesia, 
evidently in his case by artificially relaxing the muscles at 
the root of the tongue. 

In this strange manner the boy paved the way for his 
future psychosis. After the second attack he became in- 
curably insane. This is only one example among many 
others, but it suffices to show how the subsequent, appar- 
ently sudden irruption of alien contents is really not sud- 
den at all, but is rather the result of an unconscious devel- 
opment that has been going on for years. 

The great question now is: in what do these unconscious 
processes consist? And how are they constituted? Naturally, 
so long as they are unconscious, nothing can be said about 
them. But sometimes they manifest themselves, partly 
through symptoms, partly through actions, opinions, affects, 
fantasies, and dreams. Aided by such observational mate- 
rial we can draw indirect conclusions as to the momentary 
state and constitution of the unconscious processes and 
their development. We should not, however, labour under 

126 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

the illusion that we have now discovered the real nature 
of the unconscious processes. We never succeed in getting 
further than the hypothetical "as if." 

"No mortal mind can plumb the depths of nature" — nor 
even the depths of the unconscious. We do know, however, 
that the unconscious never rests. It seems to be always at 
work, for even when asleep we dream. There are many 
people who declare that they never dream, but the prob- 
ability is that they simply do not remember their dreams. 
It is significant that people who talk in their sleep mostly 
have no recollection either of the dream which started them 
talking, or even of the fact that they dreamed at all. Not 
a day passes but we make some slip of the tongue, or 
something slips our memory which at other times we know 
perfectly well, or we are seized by a mood whose cause 
we cannot trace, etc. These things are all symptoms of 
some consistent unconscious activity which becomes di- 
rectly visible at night in dreams, but only occasionally 
breaks through the inhibitions imposed by our daytime 

So far as our present experience goes, we can lay it 
down that the unconscious processes stand in a compensa- 
tory relation to the conscious mind. I expressly use the word 
"compensatory" and not the word "contrary" because con- 
scious and unconscious are not necessarily in opposition to 
one another, but complement one another to form a totality, 
which is the self. According to this definition the self is a 
quantity that is supraordinate to the conscious ego. It 
embraces not only the conscious but also the unconscious 
psyche, and is therefore, so to speak, a personality which 
we also are. It is easy enough to think of ourselves as 
possessing part-souls. Thus we can, for instance, see our- 
selves as a persona without too much difficulty. But it 
transcends our powers of imagination to form a clear pic- 
ture of what we are as a self, for in this operation the part 
would have to comprehend the whole. There is little hope 
of our ever being able to reach even approximate con- 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 12 7 

sciousness of the self, since however much we may make 
conscious there will always exist an indeterminate and 
indeterminable amount of unconscious material which be- 
longs to the totality of the self. Hence the self will always 
remain a supraordinate quantity. 

The unconscious processes that compensate the conscious 
ego contain all those elements that are necessary for the 
self-regulation of the psyche as a whole. On the personal 
level, these are the not consciously recognized personal 
motives which appear in dreams, or the meanings of daily 
situations which we have overlooked, or conclusions we 
have failed to draw, or affects we have not permitted, or 
criticisms we have spared ourselves. But the more we be- 
come conscious of ourselves through self-knowledge, and 
act accordingly, the more the layer of the personal un- 
conscious that is superimposed on the collective uncon- 
scious will be diminished. In this way there arises a con- 
sciousness which is no longer imprisoned in the petty, 
oversensitive, personal world of the ego, but participates 
freely in the wider world of objective interests. This wid- 
ened consciousness is no longer that touchy, egotistical 
bundle of personal wishes, fears, hopes, and ambitions 
which always has to be compensated or corrected by un- 
conscious counter-tendencies; instead, it is a function of 
relationship to the world of objects, bringing the individ- 
ual into absolute, binding, and indissoluble communion 
with the world at large. The complications arising at this 
stage are no longer egotistic wish-conflicts, but difficulties 
that concern others as much as oneself. At this stage it is 
fundamentally a question of collective problems, which 
have activated the collective unconscious because they 
require collective rather than personal compensation. We 
can now see that the unconscious produces contents which 
are valid not only for the person concerned, but for others 
as well, in fact for a great many people and possibly for 

The Elgonyi, natives of the Elgon forests, of central 

128 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

Africa, explained to me that there are two kinds of dreams: 
the ordinary dream of the little man, and the "big vision" 
that only the great man has, e.g., the medicine-man or 
chief. Little dreams are of no account, but if a man has a 
"big dream" he summons the whole tribe in order to tell it 
to everybody. 

How is a man to know whether his dream is a "big" or a 
"little" one? He knows it by an instinctive feeling of signifi- 
cance. He feels so overwhelmed by the impression it makes 
that he would never think of keeping the dream to himself. 
He has to tell it, on the psychologically correct assumption 
that it is of general significance. Even with us the collective 
dream has a feeling of importance about it that impels 
communication. It springs from a conflict of relationship 
and must therefore be built into our conscious relations, 
because it compensates these and not just some inner per- 
sonal quirk. 

The processes of the collective unconscious are con- 
cerned not only with the more or less personal relations 
of an individual to his family or to a wider social group, but 
with his relations to society and to the human community 
in general. The more general and impersonal the condition 
that releases the unconscious reaction, the more significant, 
bizarre, and overwhelming will be the compensatory mani- 
festation. It impels not just private communication, but 
drives people to revelations and confessions, and even to a 
dramatic representation of their fantasies. 

I will explain by an example how the unconscious man- 
ages to compensate relationships. A somewhat arrogant 
gentleman once came to me for treatment. He ran a busi- 
ness in partnership with his younger brother. Relations be- 
tween the two brothers were very strained, and this was 
one of the essential causes of my patient's neurosis. From 
the information he gave me, the real reason for the tension 
was not altogether clear. He had all kinds of criticisms to 
make of his brother, whose gifts he certainly did not show 
in a very favourable light. The' brother frequently came 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 129 

into his dreams, always in the role of a Bismarck, Napo- 
leon, or Julius Caesar. His house looked like the Vatican 
or Yildiz Kiosk. My patient's unconscious evidently had 
the need to exalt the rank of the younger brother. From this 
I concluded that he was setting himself too high and his 
brother too low. The further course of analysis entirely 
justified this inference. 

Another patient, a young woman who clung to her 
mother in an extremely sentimental way, always had very 
sinister dreams about her. She appeared in the dreams as a 
witch, as a ghost, as a pursuing demon. The mother had 
spoilt her beyond all reason and had so blinded her by 
tenderness that the daughter had no conscious idea of her 
mother's harmful influence. Hence the compensatory crit- 
icism exercised by the unconscious. 

I myself once happened to put too low a value on a 
patient, both intellectually and morally. In a dream I 
saw a castle perched on a high cliff, and on the topmost 
tower was a balcony, and there sat my patient. I did not 
hesitate to tell her this dream at once, naturally with the 
best results. 

We all know how apt we are to make fools of ourselves 
in front of the very people we have unjustly underrated. 
Naturally the case can also be reversed, as once happened 
to a friend of mine. While still a callow student he had 
written to Virchow, the pathologist, craving an audience 
with "His Excellency." When, quaking with fear, he pre- 
sented himself and tried to give his name, he blurted out, 
"My name is Virchow." Whereupon His Excellency, smil- 
ing mischievously, said, "Ah! So your name is Virchow 
too?" The feeling of his own nullity was evidently too much 
for the unconscious of my friend, and in consequence it 
instantly prompted him to present himself as equal to Vir- 
chow in grandeur. 

In these more personal relations there is of course no 
need for any very collective compensations. On the other 
hand, the figures employed by the unconscious in our first 

ijo : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

case are of a definitely collective nature: they are univer- 
sally recognized heroes. Here there are two possible inter- 
pretations: either my patient's younger brother is a man 
of acknowledged and far-reaching collective importance, 
or my patient is overestimating his own importance not 
merely in relation to his brother but in relation to every- 
body else as well. For the first assumption there was no 
support at all, while for the second there was the evidence 
of one's own eyes. Since the man's extreme arrogance af- 
fected not only himself, but a far wider social group, the 
compensation availed itself of a collective image. 

The same is true of the second case. The "witch" is a 
collective image; hence we must conclude that the blind 
dependence of the young woman applied as much to the 
wider social group as it did to her mother personally. This 
was indeed the case, in so far as she was still living in an 
exclusively infantile world, where the world was identical 
with her parents. These examples deal with relations within 
the personal orbit. There are, however, impersonal relations 
which occasionally need unconscious compensation. In 
such cases collective images appear with a more or less 
mythological character. Moral, philosophical, and religious 
problems are, on account of their universal validity, the 
most likely to call for mythological compensation. In 
the aforementioned novel by H. G. Wells we find a classical 
type of compensation: Mr. Preemby, a midget personality, 
discovers that he is really a reincarnation of Sargon, King 
of Kings. Happily, the genius of the author rescues poor 
old Sargon from pathological absurdity, and even gives the 
reader a chance to appreciate the tragic and eternal mean- 
ing in this lamentable affray. Mr. Preemby, a complete 
nonentity, recognizes himself as the point of intersection of 
all ages past and future. This knowledge is not too dearly 
bought at the cost of a little madness, provided that Pre- 
emby is not in the end devoured by that monster of a 
primordial image — which is in fact what nearly happens to 

The universal problem of evil and sin is another aspect 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 131 

of our impersonal relations to the world. Almost more than 
any other, therefore, this problem produces collective com- 
pensations. One of my patients, aged sixteen, had as the 
initial symptom of a severe compulsion neurosis the fol- 
lowing dream: He is walking along an unfamiliar street. 
It is dark, and he hears steps coming behind him. With a 
feeling of fear he quickens his pace. The footsteps come 
nearer, and his fear increases. He begins to run. But the 
footsteps seem to be overtaking him. Finally he turns 
round, and there he sees the devil. In deathly terror he 
leaps into the air and hangs there suspended. This dream 
was repeated twice, a sign of its special urgency. 

It is a notorious fact that the compulsion neuroses, by 
reason of their meticulousness and ceremonial punctilio, 
not only have the surface appearance of a moral problem 
but are indeed brim-full of inhuman beastliness and ruth- 
less evil, against the integration of which the very delicately 
organized personality puts up a desperate struggle. This 
explains why so many things have to be performed in 
ceremonially "correct" style, as though to counteract the 
evil hovering in the background. After this dream the 
neurosis started, and its essential feature was that the pa- 
tient had, as he put it, to keep himself in a "provisional" or 
"uncontaminated" state of purity. For this purpose he 
either severed or made "invalid" all contact with the world 
and with everything that reminded him of the transitoriness 
of human existence, by means of lunatic formalities, scru- 
pulous cleansing ceremonies, and the anxious observance of 
innumerable rules and regulations of an unbelievable com- 
plexity. Even before the patient had any suspicion of the 
hellish existence that lay before him, the dream showed 
him that if he wanted to come down to earth again there 
would have to be a pact with evil. 

Elsewhere I have described a dream that illustrates the 
compensation of a religious problem in a young theological 
student. 27 He was involved in all sorts of difficulties of 

** "Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious" (Collected Works, Vol. 
9-i), par. 71. 

IJ2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

belief, a not uncommon occurrence in the man of today. 
In his dream he was the pupil of the "white magician," 
who, however, was dressed in black. After having instructed 
him up to a certain point, the white magician told him 
that they now needed the "black magician." The black 
magician appeared, but clad in a white robe. He declared 
that he had found the keys of paradise, but needed the 
wisdom of the white magician in order to understand how 
to use them. This dream obviously contains the problem 
of opposites which, as we know, has" found in Taoist 
philosophy a solution very different from the views pre- 
vailing in the West. The figures employed by the dream 
are impersonal collective images corresponding to the na- 
ture of the impersonal religious problem. In contrast to 
the Christian view, the dream stresses the relativity of 
good and evil in a way that immediately calls to mind the 
Taoist symbol of Yin and Yang. 

We should certainly not conclude from these compensa- 
tions that, as the conscious mind becomes more deeply 
engrossed in universal problems, the unconscious will 
bring forth correspondingly far-reaching compensations. 
There is what one might call a legitimate and an illegitimate 
interest in impersonal problems. Excursions of this kind 
are legitimate only when they arise from the deepest and 
truest needs of the individual; illegitimate when they are 
either mere intellectual curiosity or a flight from unpleasant 
reality. In the latter case the unconscious produces all too 
human and purely personal compensations, whose manifest 
aim is to bring the conscious mind back to ordinary reality. 
People who go illegitimately mooning after the infinite 
often have absurdly banal dreams which endeavour to 
damp down their ebullience. Thus, from the nature of the 
compensation, we can at once draw conclusions as to the 
seriousness and Tightness of the conscious strivings. 

There are certainly not a few people who are afraid to 
admit that the unconscious could ever have "big" ideas. 
They will object, "But do you really believe that the un- 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 133 

conscious is capable of offering anything like a constructive 
criticism of our Western mentality?" Of course, if we take 
the problem intellectually and impute rational intentions to 
the unconscious, the thing becomes absurd. But it would 
never do to foist our conscious psychology upon the un- 
conscious. Its mentality is an instinctive one; it has no 
differentiated functions, and it does not "think" as we 
understand "thinking." It simply creates an image that an- 
swers to the conscious situation. This image contains as 
much thought as feeling, and is anything rather than a 
product of rationalistic reflection. Such an image would 
be better described as an artist's vision. We tend to forget 
that a problem like the one which underlies the dream last 
mentioned cannot, even to the conscious mind of the 
dreamer, be an intellectual problem, but is profoundly 
emotional. For a moral man the ethical problem is a 
passionate question which has its roots in the deepest in- 
stinctual processes as well as in his most idealistic aspira- 
tions. The problem for him is devastatingly real. It is not 
surprising, therefore, that the answer likewise springs from 
the depths of his nature. The fact that everyone thinks 
his psychology is the measure of all things, and, if he also 
happens to be a fool, will inevitably think that such a 
problem is beneath his notice, should not trouble the psy- 
chologist in the least, for he has to take things objectively, 
as he finds them, without twisting them to fit his sub- 
jective suppositions. The richer and more capacious natures 
may legitimately be gripped by an impersonal problem, and 
to the extent that this is so, their unconscious can answer 
in the same style. And just as the conscious mind can put 
the question, "Why is there this frightful conflict between 
good and evil?," so the unconscious can reply, "Look 
closer! Each needs the other. The best, just because it is 
the best, holds the seed of evil, and there is nothing so bad 
but good can come of it." 

It might then dawn on the dreamer that the apparently 
insoluble conflict is, perhaps, a prejudice, a frame of mind 

134 • Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

conditioned by time and place. The seemingly complex 
dream-image might easily reveal itself as plain, instinctive 
common sense, as the tiny germ of a rational idea, which 
a maturer mind could just as well have thought con- 
sciously. At all events Chinese philosophy thought of it 
ages ago. The singularly apt, plastic configuration of 
thought is the prerogative of that primitive, natural spirit 
which is alive in all of us and is only obscured by a one- 
sided conscious development. If we consider the uncon- 
scious compensations from this angle, we might justifiably 
be accused of judging the unconscious too much from the 
conscious standpoint. And indeed, in pursuing these reflec- 
tions, I have always started from the view that the un- 
conscious simply reacts to the conscious contents, albeit in 
a very significant way, but that it lacks initiative. It is, 
however, far from my intention to give the impression 
that the unconscious is merely reactive in all cases. On 
the contrary, there is a host of experiences which seem to 
prove that the unconscious is not only spontaneous but 
can actually take the lead. There are innumerable cases 
of people who lingered on in a pettifogging unconscious- 
ness, only to become neurotic in the end. Thanks to the 
neurosis contrived by the unconscious, they are shaken out 
of their apathy, and this in spite of their own laziness and 
often desperate resistance. 

Yet it would, in my view, be wrong to suppose that in 
such cases the unconscious is working to a deliberate and 
concerted plan and is striving to realize certain definite 
ends. I have found nothing to support this assumption. The 
driving force, so far as it is possible for us to grasp it, 
seems to be in essence only an urge towards self-realization. 
If it were a matter of some general teleological plan, then 
all individuals who enjoy a surplus of unconsciousness 
would necessarily be driven towards higher consciousness 
by an irresistible urge. That is plainly not the case. There 
are vast masses of the population who, despite their notori- 
ous unconsciousness, never get anywhere near a neurosis. 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 13s 

The few who are smitten by such a fate are really persons 
of the "higher" type who, for one reason or another, have 
remained too long on a primitive level. Their nature does 
not in the long run tolerate persistence in what is for them 
an unnatural torpor. As a result of their narrow conscious 
outlook and their cramped existence they save energy; bit 
by bit it accumulates in the unconscious and finally ex- 
plodes in the form of a more or less acute neurosis. This 
simple mechanism does not necessarily conceal a <k plan." 
A perfectly understandable urge towards self-realization 
would provide a quite satisfactory explanation. We could 
also speak of a retarded maturation of the personality. 

Since it is highly probable that we are still a long way 
from the summit of absolute consciousness, presumably 
everyone is capable of wider consciousness, and we may 
assume accordingly that the unconscious processes are 
constantly supplying us with contents which, if consciously 
recognized, would extend the range of consciousness. 
Looked at in this way, the unconscious appears as a field of 
experience of unlimited extent. If it were merely reactive 
to the conscious mind, we might aptly call it a psychic 
mirror-world. In that case, the real source of all contents 
and activities would lie in the conscious mind, and there 
would be absolutely nothing in the unconscious except 
the distorted reflections of conscious contents. The creative 
process would be shut up in the conscious mind, and any- 
thing new would be nothing but conscious invention or 
cleverness. The empirical facts give the lie to this. Every 
creative man knows that spontaneity is the very essence of 
creative thought. Because the unconscious is not just a 
reactive mirror-reflection, but an independent, productive 
activity, its realm of experience is a self-contained world, 
having its own reality, of which we can only say that it 
affects us as we affect it — precisely what we say about 
our experience of the outer world. And just as material 
objects are the constituent elements of this world, so psy- 
chic factors constitute the objects of that other world. 

Ij6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

The idea of psychic objectivity is by no means a new 
discovery. It is in fact one of the earliest and most universal 
acquisitions of humanity: it is nothing less than the con- 
viction as to the concrete existence of a spirit-world. The 
spirit-world was certainly never an invention in the sense 
that fire-boring was an invention; it was far rather the 
experience, the conscious acceptance of a reality in no 
way inferior to that of the material world. I doubt whether 
primitives exist anywhere who are not acquainted with 
magical influence or a magical substance. ("Magical" is 
simply another word for "psychic") It would also appear 
that practically all primitives are aware of the existence of 
spirits. 28 "Spirit" is a psychic fact. Just as we distinguish 
our own bodiliness from bodies that are strange to us, so 
primitives — if they have any notion of "souls" at all — 
distinguish between their own souls and the spirits, which 
are felt as strange and as "not belonging." They are ob- 
jects of outward perception, whereas their own soul (or 
one of several souls where a plurality is assumed), though 
believed to be essentially akin to the spirits, is not usually 
an object of so-called sensible perception. After death 
the soul (or one of the plurality of souls) becomes a spirit 
which survives the dead man, and often it shows a marked 
deterioration of character that partly contradicts the notion 
of personal immortality. The Bataks, 29 of Sumatra, go so 
far as to assert that the people who were good in this life 
turn into malign and dangerous spirits. Nearly everything 
that the primitives say about the tricks which the spirits 
play on the living, and the general picture they give of the 
revenants, corresponds down to the last detail with the- 
phenomena established by spiritualistic experience. And 
just as the communications from the "Beyond" can be 

28 In cases of reports to the contrary, it must always be borne in 
mind that the fear of spirits is sometimes so great that people will 
actually deny that there are any spirits to fear. 1 have come across 
this myself among the dwellers on Mount Elgon. 
111 Joh. Warnecke, "Die Religion der Balak," in Julius Boehmen, 
ed., Religions-Urkunden der Volker (Leipzig, 1909), Part IV, Vol. I. 

Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 137 

seen to be the activities of broken-off bits of the psyche, so 
these primitive spirits are manifestations of unconscious 
complexes. 30 The importance that modern psychology at- 
taches to the "parental complex" is a direct continuation 
of primitive man's experience of the dangerous power of 
the ancestral spirits. Even the error of judgment which 
leads him unthinkingly to assume that the spirits are real- 
ities of the external world is carried on in our assumption 
(which is only partially correct) that the real parents are 
responsible for the parental complex. In the old trauma 
theory of Freudian psychoanalysis, and in other quarters 
as well, this assumption even passed for a scientific ex- 
planation. (It was in order to avoid this confusion that I 
advocated the term "parental imago.") 31 

The simple soul is of course quite unaware of the fact 
that his nearest relations, who exercise immediate influence 
over him, create in him an image which is only partly a 
replica of themselves, while its other part is compounded 
of elements derived from himself. The imago is built up 
of parental influences plus the specific reactions of the 
child; it is therefore an image that reflects the object with 
very considerable qualifications. Naturally, the simple soul 
believes that his parents are as he sees them. The image is 
unconsciously projected, and when the parents die, the 
projected image goes on working as though it were a spirit 
existing on its own. The primitive then speaks of parental 
spirits who return by night (revenants), while the mod- 
ern man calls it a father or mother complex. 

The more limited a man's field of consciousness is, the 
more numerous the psychic contents (imagos) which meet 
him as quasi-external apparitions, either in the form of 
spirits, or as magical potencies projected upon living people 

3 "Cf. "The Psychological Foundations of Belief in Spirits," in The 
Structure ami Dynamics of the Psyche (Collected IVoiks, Vol. 8). 
;,i [This term was taken up by psychoanalysis, but in analytical psy- 
chology it has been largely replaced by "primordial image of the 
parent" or "parental archetype." — Editors of The Collected 

ij8 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology 

(magicians, witches, etc.). At a rather higher stage of de- 
velopment, where the idea of the soul already exists, not all 
the imagos continue to be projected (where this happens, 
even trees and stones talk), but one or the other complex 
has come near enough to consciousness to be felt as no 
longer strange, but as somehow "belonging." Nevertheless, 
the feeling that it "belongs" is not at first sufficiently strong 
for the complex to be sensed as a subjective content of 
consciousness. It remains in a sort of no man's land be- 
tween conscious and unconscious, in the half-shadow, in 
part belonging or akin to the conscious subject, in part an 
autonomous being, and meeting consciousness as such. At 
all events it is not necessarily obedient to the subject's 
intentions, it may even be of a higher order, more often 
than not a source of inspiration or warning, or of "super- 
natural" information. Psychologically such a content could 
be explained as a partly autonomous complex that is not 
yet fully integrated. The archaic souls, the ba and ka of the 
Egyptians, are complexes of this kind. At a still higher level, 
and particularly among the civilized peoples of the West, 
this complex is invariably of the feminine gender — anima 
and i/nr^/ — a fact for which deeper and cogent reasons are 
not lacking. 


A ion: Phenomenology of the Self 1 


The Ego 

Investigation of the psychology of the unconscious con- 
fronted me with facts which required the formulation of 
new concepts. One of these concepts is the self. The entity 
so denoted is not meant to take the place of the one that 
has always been known as the ego, but includes it in a 
supraordinate concept. We understand the ego as the com- 
plex factor to which all conscious contents are related. It 
forms, as it were, the centre of the field of consciousness; 
and, in so far as this comprises the empirical personality 
the ego is the subject of all personal acts of consciousness. 
The relation of a psychic content to the ego forms the 
criterion of its consciousness, for no content can be con- 
scious unless it is represented to a subject. 

With this definition we have described and delimited 
the scope of the subject. Theoretically, no limits can be 

1 From A ion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self. Col- 
lected Works, Vol. 9ii, pars. 1-42; translated from the first part of 
A ion: Untersnchnngen zur Sytnbolgeschichte (Psychologische Ab- 
handlungen, VI11; Zurich, Rascher Verlag, 1951). 


140 : A ion 

set to the field of consciousness, since it is capable of 
indefinite extension. Empirically, however, it always finds 
its limit when it comes up against the unknown. This con- 
sists of everything we do not know, which, therefore, is 
not related to the ego as the centre of the field of con- 
sciousness. The unknown falls into two groups of objects: 
those which are outside and can be experienced by the 
senses, and those which are inside and are experienced im- 
mediately. The first group comprises the unknown in the 
outer world; the second the unknown in the inner world. 
We call this latter territory the unconscious. 

The ego, as a specific content of consciousness, is not 
a simple or elementary factor but a complex one which, 
as such, cannot be described exhaustively. Experience shows 
that it rests on two seemingly different bases: the somatic 
and the psychic. The somatic basis is inferred from the 
totality of endosomatic perceptions, which for their part 
are already of a psychic nature and are associated with 
the ego, and are therefore conscious. They are produced 
by endosomatic stimuli, only some of which cross the 
threshold of consciousness. A considerable proportion of 
these stimuli occur unconsciously, that is, subliminally. 
The fact that they are subliminal does not necessarily mean 
that their status is merely physiological, any more than this 
would be true of a psychic content. Sometimes they are 
capable of crossing the threshold, that is, of becoming 
perceptions. But there is no doubt that a large proportion 
of these endosomatic stimuli are simply incapable of con- 
sciousness and are so elementary that there is no reason 
to assign them a psychic nature — unless of course one 
favours the philosophical view that all life-processes are 
psychic anyway. The chief objection to this hardly demon- 
strable hypothesis is that it enlarges the concept of the 
psyche beyond ail bounds and interprets the life-process in 
a way not absolutely warranted by the facts. Concepts that 
are too broad usually prove to be unsuitable instruments 
because they are too vague and nebulous. I have therefore 

Phenomenology of the Self : 141 

suggested that the term "psychic" be used only where there 
is evidence of a will capable of modifying reflex or instinc- 
tual processes. Here I must refer the reader to my paper 
"On the Nature of the Psyche," 2 where I have discussed 
this definition of the "psychic" at somewhat greater length. 

The somatic basis of the ego consists, then, of con- 
scious and unconscious factors. The same is true of the 
psychic basis: on the one hand the ego rests on the total 
field of consciousness, and on the other, on the sum total 
of unconscious contents. These fall into three groups: first, 
temporarily subliminal contents that can be reproduced 
voluntarily (memory); second, unconscious contents that 
cannot be reproduced voluntarily; third, contents that are 
not capable of becoming conscious at all. Group two can 
be inferred from the spontaneous irruption of subliminal 
contents into consciousness. Group three is hypothetical; 
it is a logical inference from the facts underlying group 
two. It contains contents which have not yet irrupted into 
consciousness, or which never will. 

When I said that the ego "rests" on the total field of 
consciousness I do not mean that it consists of this. Were 
that so, it would be indistinguishable from the field of 
consciousness as a whole. The ego is only the lattefs point 
of reference, grounded on and limited by the somatic fac- 
tor described above. 

Although its bases are in themselves relatively unknown 
and unconscious, the ego is a conscious factor par ex- 
cellence. It is even acquired, empirically speaking, during 
the individual's lifetime. It seems to arise in the first place 
from the collision between the somatic factor and the en- 
vironment, and, once established as a subject, it goes on 
developing from further collisions with the outer world 
and the inner. 

Despite the unlimited extent of its bases, the ego is 
never more and never less than consciousness as a whole. 
As a conscious factor the ego could, theoretically at least, 

"Collected Works, Vol. 8, pars. 37 iff. 

142 : A ion 

be described completely. But this would never amount to 
more than a picture of the conscious personality; all those 
features which are unknown or unconscious to the subject 
would be missing. A total picture would have to include 
these. But a total ^description of the personality is, even in 
theory, absolutely impossible, because the unconscious por- 
tion of it cannot be grasped cognitively. This unconscious 
portion, as experience has abundantly shown, is by no 
means unimportant. On the contrary, the most decisive 
qualities in a person are often unconscious and can be per- 
ceived only by others, or have to be laboriously discovered 
with outside help. 

Clearly, then, the personality as a total phenomenon 
does not coincide with the ego, that is, with the conscious 
personality, but forms an entity that has to be distinguished 
from the ego. Naturally the need to do this is incumbent 
only on a psychology that reckons with the fact of the 
unconscious, but for such a psychology the distinction is 
of paramount importance. Even for jurisprudence it should 
be of some importance whether certain psychic facts are 
conscious or not — for instance, in adjudging the question 
of responsibility. 

I have suggested calling the total personality which, 
though present, cannot be fully known, the self. The ego 
is, by definition, subordinate to the self and is related to 
it like a part to the whole. Inside the field of consciousness 
it has, as we say, free will. By this I do not mean anything 
philosophical, only the well-known psychological fact of 
"free choice," or rather the subjective feeling of freedom. 
But, just as our free will clashes with necessity in the out- 
side world, so also it finds its limits outside the field of 
consciousness in the subjective inner world, where it 
comes into conflict with the facts of the self. And just as 
circumstances or outside events "happen" to us and limit 
our freedom, so the self acts upon the ego like an objective 
occurrence which free will can do very little to alter. It is, 
indeed, well known that the ego not only can do nothing 

Phenomenology of the Self : 143 

against the self, but is sometimes actually assimilated by 
unconscious components of the personality that are in the 
process of development and is greatly altered by them. 

It is, in the nature of the case, impossible to give any 
general description of the ego except a formal one. Any 
other mode of observation would have to take account of 
the individuality which attaches to the ego as one of its 
main characteristics. Although the numerous elements 
composing this complex factor are, in themselves, every- 
where the same, they are infinitely varied as regards clar- 
ity, emotional colouring, and scope. The result of their 
combination — the ego — is therefore, so far as one can 
judge, individual and unique, and retains its identity up 
to a certain point. Its stability is relative, because far- 
reaching changes of personality can sometimes occur. Al- 
terations of this kind need not always be pathological; they 
can also be developmental and hence fall within the scope 
of the normal. 

Since it is the point of reference for the field of con- 
sciousness, the ego is the subject of all successful attempts 
at adaptation so far as these are achieved by the will. The 
ego therefore has a significant part to play in the psychic 
economy. Its position there is so important that there are 
good grounds for the prejudice that the ego is the centre of 
the personality, and that the field of consciousness is the 
psyche per se. If we discount certain suggestive ideas in 
Leibniz, Kant, Schelling, and Schopenhauer, and the philo- 
sophical excursions of Carus and von Hartmann, it is only 
since the end of the nineteenth century that modern psy- 
chology, with its inductive methods, has discovered the 
foundations of consciousness and proved empirically the 
existence of a psyche outside consciousness. With this dis- 
covery the position of the ego, till then absolute, became 
relativized; that is to say, though it retains its quality as 
the centre of the field of consciousness, it is questionable 
whether it is the centre of the personality. It is part of the 
personality but not the whole of it. As I have said, it is 

144 ' A ion 

simply impossible to estimate how large or how small its 
share is; how free or how dependent it is on the qualities 
of this extra-conscious" psyche. We can only say that 
its freedom is limited and its dependence proved in ways 
that are often decisive. In my experience one would do 
well not to underestimate its dependence on the uncon- 
scious. Naturally there is no need to say this to persons who 
already overestimate the latter's importance. Some cri- 
terion for the right measure is afforded by the psychic 
consequences of a wrong estimate, a point to which we 
shall return later on. 

We have seen that, from the standpoint of the psy- 
chology of consciousness, the unconscious can be divided 
into three groups of contents. But from the standpoint of 
the psychology of the personality a twofold division en- 
sues: an "extra-conscious" psyche whose contents are per- 
sonal, and an "extra-conscious" psyche whose contents are 
impersonal and collective. The first group comprises con- 
tents which are integral components of the individual per- 
sonality and could therefore just as well be conscious; the 
second group forms, as it were, an omnipresent, unchang- 
ing, and everywhere identical quality or substrate of the 
psyche per se. This is, of course, no more than a hypothesis. 
But we are driven to it by the peculiar nature of the em- 
pirical material, not to mention the high probability that 
the general similarity of psychic processes in all individuals 
must be based on an equally general and impersonal prin- 
ciple that conforms to law, just as the instinct manifesting 
itself in the individual is only the partial manifestation of 
an instinctual substrate common to all men. 


The Shadow 

Whereas the contents of the personal unconscious are 
acquired during the individual's lifetime, the contents of 

Phenomenology of the Self : 145 

the collective unconscious are invariably archetypes that 
were present from the beginning. Their relation to the in- 
stincts has been discussed elsewhere. 3 The archetypes most 
clearly characterized from the empirical point of view are 
those which have the most frequent and the most disturb- 
ing influence on the ego. These are the shadow, the anima, 
and the animusA The most accessible of these, and the 
easiest to experience, is the shadow, for its nature can in 
large measure be inferred from the contents of the per- 
sonal unconscious. The only exceptions to this rule are 
those rather rare cases where the positive qualities of the 
personality are repressed, and the ego in consequence plays 
an essentially negative or unfavourable role. 

The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the 
whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious 
of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To be- 
come conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects 
of the personality as present and real. This act is the essen- 
tial condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it there- 
fore, as a rule, meets with considerable resistance. Indeed, 
self-knowledge as a psychotherapeutic measure frequently 
requires much painstaking work extending over a long 

Closer examination of the dark characteristics — that is, 
the inferiorities constituting the shadow — reveals that they 
have an emotional nature, a kind of autonomy, and ac- 
cordingly an obsessive or, better, possessive quality. Emo- 
tion, incidentally, is not an activity of the individual but 
something that happens to him. Affects occur usually 
where adaptation is weakest, and at the same time they 
reveal the reason for its weakness, namely a certain de- 

:l "Instinct and the Unconscious" (supra, pp. 47-58) and "On the 
Nature of the Psyche/' in The Structure and Dynamics of the 
Psyche {Collected Works, Vol. 8), pars. 397ft. 
*Thc contents of this and the following chapter are taken from a 
lecture delivered to the Swiss Society for Practical Psychology, in 
Zurich, 1948. The material was first published in the Wiener Zcil- 
schrijt Jiir Nervenheilkunde unci deren Grenzgebiete, 1 (1948), 4. 

146 : A ion 

gree of inferiority and the existence of a lower level of 
personality. On this lower level with its uncontrolled or 
scarcely controlled emotions one behaves more or less like 
a primitive, who is not only the passive victim of his affects 
but also singularly incapable of moral judgment. 

Although, with insight and good will, the shadow can to 
some extent be assimilated into the conscious personality, 
experience shows that there are certain features which offer 
the most obstinate resistance to moral control and prove 
almost impossible to influence. These resistances are usu- 
ally bound up with projections, which are not recognized 
as such, and their recognition is a moral achievement be- 
yond the ordinary. While some traits peculiar to the 
shadow can be recognized without too much difficulty as 
one's own personal qualities, in this case both insight and 
good will are unavailing because the cause of the emotion 
appears to lie, beyond all possibility of doubt, in the other 
person. No matter how obvious it may be to the neutral 
observer that it is a matter of projections, there is little 
hope that the subject will perceive this himself. He must 
be convinced that he throws a very long shadow before 
he is willing to withdraw his emotionally-toned projections 
from their object. 

Let us suppose that a certain individual shows no in- 
clination whatever to recognize his projections. The pro- 
jection-making factor then has a free hand and can realize 
its object — if it has one — or bring about some other situa- 
tion characteristic of its power. As we know, it is not the 
conscious subject but the unconscious which does the 
projecting. Hence one meets with projections, one does 
not make them. The effect of projection is to isolate the 
subject from his environment, since instead of a real re- 
lation to it there is now only an illusory one. Projections 
change the world into the replica of one's own unknown 
face. In the last analysis, therefore, they lead to an auto- 
erotic or autistic condition in which one dreams a world 
whose reality remains forever unattainable. The resultant 

Phenomenology of the Self : 147 

sentiment d'incompletude and the still worse feeling of 
sterility are in their turn explained by projection as the 
malevolence of the environment, and by means of this 
vicious circle the isolation is intensified. The more projec- 
tions are thrust in between the subject and the environ- 
ment, the harder it is for the ego to see through its illu- 
sions. A forty-five-yea r-old patient who had suffered from 
a compulsion neurosis since he was twenty and had be- 
come completely cut off from the world once said to me: 
"But I can never admit to myself that I've wasted the best 
twenty-five years of my life!" 

It is often tragic to see how blatantly a man bungles his 
own life and the lives of others yet remains totally in- 
capable of seeing how much the whole tragedy originates 
in himself, and how he continually feeds it and keeps it 
going. Not consciously, of course — for consciously he is 
engaged in bewailing and cursing a faithless world that 
recedes further and further into the distance. Rather, it 
is an unconscious factor which spins the illusions that veil 
his world. And what is being spun is a cocoon, which in 
the end will completely envelop him. 

One might assume that projections like these, which are 
so very difficult if not impossible to dissolve, would belong 
to the realm of the shadow — that is, to the negative side 
of the personality. This assumption becomes untenable 
after a certain point, because the symbols that then appear 
no longer refer to the same but to the opposite sex, in a 
man's case to a woman and vice versa. The source of pro- 
jections is no longer the shadow — which is always of the 
same sex as the subject — but a contrasexual figure. Here 
we meet the animus of a woman and the anima of a man, 
two corresponding archetypes whose autonomy and uncon- 
sciousness explain the stubbornness of their projections. 
Though the shadow is a motif as well known to mythology 
as anima and animus, it represents first and foremost the 
personal unconscious, and its content can therefore be 
made conscious without too much difficulty. In this it 

14S : A ion 

differs from anima and animus, for whereas the shadow 
can be seen through and recognized fairly easily, the anima 
and animus are much further away from consciousness and 
in normal circumstances are seldom if ever realized. With 
a little self-criticism one can see through the shadow — so 
far as its nature is personal. But when it appears as an 
archetype, one encounters the same difficulties as with 
anima and animus. In other words, it is quite within the 
bounds of possibility for a man to recognize the relative 
evil of his nature, but it is a rare and shattering experience 
for him to gaze into the face of absolute evil. 


The Syzygy: Anima and Animus 

What, then, is this projection-making factor? The East 
calls it the "Spinning Woman" 5 — Maya, who creates illu- 
sion by her dancing. Had we not long since known it from 
the symbolism of dreams, this hint from the Orient would 
put us on the right track: the enveloping, embracing, and 
devouring element points unmistakably to the mother, 6 
that is, to the son's relation to the real mother, to her 
imago, and to the woman who is to become a mother for 
him. His Eros is passive like a child's; he hopes to be 
caught, sucked in, enveloped, and devoured. He seeks, as 
it were, the protecting, nourishing, charmed circle of the 
mother, the condition of the infant released from every 
care, in which the outside world bends over him and even 
forces happiness upon him. No wonder the real world 
vanishes from sight! 

If this situation is dramatized, as the unconscious usually 

3 Erwin Rousselle, "Spiritual Guidance in Contemporary Taoism," 
translated by Ralph Mannheim, in Joseph Campbell, ed., Papers 
from the Ercmos Yearbooks, Bollingen Series XXX (New York, 
1954-68, 6 vols.), Vol. 4, p. 82. 

Here and in what follows, the word "mother" is not meant in the 
literal sense but as a symbol of everything that functions as a mother. 

Phenomenology of the Self : 149 

dramatizes it, then there appears before you on the psy- 
chological stage a man living regressively, seeking his child- 
hood and his mother, fleeing from a cold cruel world which 
denies him understanding. Often a mother appears beside 
him who apparently shows not the slightest concern that 
her little son should become a man, but who, with tireless 
and self-immolating effort, neglects nothing that might 
hinder him from growing up and marrying. You behold the 
secret conspiracy between mother and son, and how each 
helps the other to betray life. 

Where does the guilt lie? With the mother, or with the 
son? Probably with both. The unsatisfied longing of the 
son for life and the world ought to be taken seriously. 
There is in him a desire to touch reality, to embrace the 
earth and fructify the field of the world. But he makes no 
more than a series of fitful starts, for his initiative as well 
as his staying power are crippled by the secret memory 
that the world and happiness may be had as a gift — from 
the mother. The fragment of world which he, like every 
man, must encounter again and again is never quite the 
right one, since it does not fall into his lap, does not meet 
him half way, but remains resistant, has to be conquered, 
and submits only to force. It makes demands on the mas- 
culinity of a man, on his ardour, above all on his courage 
and resolution when it comes to throwing his whole being 
into the scales. For this he would need a faithless Eros, one 
capable of forgetting his mother and undergoing the pain 
of relinquishing the first love of his life. The mother, fore- 
seeing this danger, has carefully inculcated into him the 
virtues of faithfulness, devotion, loyalty, so as to protect 
him from the moral disruption which is the risk of every 
life adventure. He has learnt these lessons only too well, 
and remains true to his mother. This naturally causes her 
the deepest anxiety (when, to her greater glory, he turns 
out to be a homosexual, for example) and at the same time 
affords her an unconscious satisfaction that is positively 
mythological. For, in the relationship now reigning be- 

150 : Aion 

tween them, there is consummated the immemorial and 
most sacred archetype of the marriage of mother and son. 
What, after all, has commonplace reality to offer, with its 
registry offices, pay envelopes, and monthly rent, that could 
outweigh the mystic awe of the hieros gamos? Or the star- 
crowned woman whom the dragon pursues, or the pious 
obscurities veiling the marriage of the Lamb? 

This myth, better than any other, illustrates the nature 
of the collective unconscious. At this level the mother is 
both old and young, Demeter and Persephone, and the 
son is spouse and sleeping suckling rolled into one. The 
imperfections of real life, with its laborious adaptations and 
manifold disappointments, naturally cannot compete with 
such a state of indescribable fulfilment. 

In the case of the son, the projection-making factor is 
identical with the mother-imago, and this is consequently 
taken to be the real mother. The projection can only be 
dissolved when the son sees that in the realm of his psyche 
there is an imago not only of the mother but of the daugh- 
ter, the sister, the beloved, the heavenly goddess, and the 
chthonic Baubo. Every mother and every beloved is forced 
to become the carrier and embodiment of this omnipresent 
and ageless image, which corresponds to the deepest reality 
in a man. It belongs to him, this perilous image of Woman; 
she stands for the loyalty which in the interests of life he 
must sometimes forgo; she is the much needed compensa- 
tion for the risks, struggles, sacrifices that all end in dis- 
appointment; she is the solace for all the bitterness of life. 
And, at the same time, she is the great illusionist, the 
seductress, who draws him into life with her Maya — and 
not only into life's reasonable and useful aspects, but into 
its frightful paradoxes and ambivalences where good and 
evil, success and ruin, hope and despair, counterbalance 
one another. Because she is his greatest danger she de- 
mands from a man his greatest, and if he has it in him she 
will receive it. 

This image is "My Lady Soul," as Spitteler called her. I 

Phenomenology of the Self : 151 

have suggested instead the term "anima," as indicating 
something specific, for which the expression "soul" is too 
general and too vague. The empirical reality summed up 
under the concept of the anima forms an extremely dra- 
matic content of the unconscious. It is possible to describe 
this content in rational, scientific language, but in this way 
one entirely fails to express its living character. Therefore, 
in describing the living processes of the psyche, I deliber- 
ately and consciously give preference to a dramatic, myth- 
ological way of thinking and speaking, because this is not 
only more expressive but also more exact than an abstract 
scientific terminology, which is wont to toy with the no- 
tion that its theoretic formulations may one fine day be 
resolved into algebraic equations. 

The projection-making factor is the anima, or rather the 
unconscious as represented by the anima. Whenever she 
appears, in dreams, visions, and fantasies, she takes on 
personified form, thus demonstrating that the factor she 
embodies possesses all the outstanding characteristics of a 
feminine being. 7 She is not an invention of the conscious, 
but a spontaneous product of the unconscious. Nor is she 
a substitute figure for the mother. On the contrary, there 
is every likelihood that the numinous qualities which make 
the mother-imago so dangerously powerful derive from the 
collective archetype of the anima, which is incarnated anew 
in every male child. 

Since the anima is an archetype that is found in men, 
it is reasonable to suppose that an equivalent archetype 
must be present in women; for just as the man is com- 
pensated by a feminine element, so woman is compensated 
by a masculine one. I do not, however, wish this argument 

7 Nalurally, she is a typical figure in belles-lettres. Recent publications 
on the subject of ihc anima include Linda Fierz-David, The Dream 
of Puliphilo, translated by Mary Hottinger, Bollingen Scries XXV 
(New York, 1950), and my "Psychology of the Transference" 
{Collected Works, Vol. 16). The anima as a psychological idea first 
appears in the sixteenth-century humanist Richardus Vitus. CI. my 
Mysterium Couiunctioiiis (Collected Works, Vol. 14), pars. 9 iff. 

1 52 : A ion 

to give the impression that these compensatory relation- 
ships were arrived at by deduction. On the contrary, long 
and varied experience was needed in order to grasp the 
nature of anima and animus empirically. Whatever we 
have to say about these archetypes, therefore, is either di- 
rectly verifiable or at least rendered probable by the facts. 
At the same time, I am fully aware that we are discussing 
pioneer work which by its very nature can only be provi- 

Just as the mother seems to be the first carrier of the 
projection-making factor for the son, so is the father for 
the daughter. Practical experience of these relationships is 
made up of many individual cases presenting all kinds of 
variations on the same basic theme. A concise description 
of them can, therefore, be no more than schematic. 

Woman is compensated by a masculine element and 
therefore her unconscious has, so to speak, a masculine 
imprint. This results in a considerable psychological differ- 
ence between men and women, and accordingly I have 
called the projection-making factor in women the animus, 
which means mind or spirit. The animus corresponds to 
the paternal Logos just as the anima corresponds to the 
maternal Eros. But I do not wish or intend to give these 
two intuitive concepts too specific a definition. I use Eros 
and Logos merely as conceptual aids to describe the fact 
that woman's consciousness is characterized more by the 
connective quality of Eros than by the discrimination and 
cognition associated with Logos. In men, Eros, the func- 
tion of relationship, is usually less developed than Logos. 
In women, on the other hand, Eros is an expression of 
their true nature, while their Logos is often only a re- 
grettable accident. It gives rise to misunderstandings and 
annoying interpretations in the family circle and among 
friends. This is because it consists of opinions instead of 
reflections, and by opinions I mean a priori assumptions 
that lay claim to absolute truth. Such assumptions, as 
everyone knows, can be extremely irritating. As the animus 

Phenomenology of the Self : 153 

is partial to argument, he can best be seen at work in 
disputes where both parties know they are right. Men can 
argue in a very womanish way, too, when they are anima- 
possessed and have thus been transformed into the animus 
of their own anima. With them the question becomes one 
of personal vanity and touchiness (as if they were fe- 
males) ; with women it is a question of power, whether of 
truth or justice or some other "ism" — for the dressmaker 
and hairdresser have already taken care of their vanity. 
The "Father" (i.e., the sum of conventional opinions) 
always plays a great role in female argumentation. No 
matter how friendly and obliging a woman's Eros may be, 
no logic on earth can shake her if she is ridden by the 
animus. Often the man has the feeling — and he is not al- 
together wrong — that only seduction or a beating or rape 
would have the necessary power of persuasion. Ho is un- 
aware that this highly dramatic situation would instantly 
come to a banal and unexciting end if he were to quit the 
field and let a second woman carry on the battle (his wife, 
for instance, if she herself is not the fiery war horse). This 
sound idea seldom or never occurs to him, because no man 
can converse with an animus for five minutes without 
becoming the victim of his own anima. Anyone who still 
had enough sense of humour to listen objectively to the 
ensuing dialogue would be staggered by the vast number 
of commonplaces, misapplied truisms, cliches from news- 
papers and novels, shop-soiled platitudes of every descrip- 
tion interspersed with vulgar abuse and brain-splitting lack 
of logic. It is a dialogue which, irrespective of its par- 
ticipants, is repeated millions and millions of times in all 
the languages of the world and always remains essentially 
the same. 

This singular fact is due to the following circumstance: 
when animus and anima meet, the animus draws his sword 
of power and the anima ejects her poison of illusion and 
seduction. The outcome need not always be negative, since 
the two are equally likely to fall in love (a special instance 

i$4 •' A ion 

of love at first sight). The language of love is of astonish- 
ing uniformity, using the well-worn formulas with the 
utmost devotion and fidelity, so that once again the two 
partners find themselves in a banal collective situation. Yet 
they live in the illusion that they are related to one another 
in a most individual way. 

In both its positive and its negative aspects the anima/ 
animus relationship is always full of "animosity," i.e., it 
is emotional, and hence collective. Affects lower the level 
of the relationship and bring it closer to the common in- 
stinctual basis, which no longer has anything individual 
about it. Very often the relationship runs its course heed- 
less of its human performers, who afterwards do not know 
what happened to them. 

Whereas the cloud of "animosity" surrounding the man 
is composed chiefly of sentimentality and resentment, in 
woman it expresses itself in the form of opinionated views, 
interpretations, insinuations, and misconstructions, which 
all have the purpose (sometimes attained) of severing the 
relation between two human beings. The woman, like the 
man, becomes wrapped in a veil of illusions by her demon- 
familiar, and, as the daughter who alone understands her 
father (that is, is eternally right in everything), she is 
translated to the land of sheep, where she is put to graze 
by the shepherd of her soul, the animus. 

Like the anima, the animus too has a positive aspect. 
Through the figure of the father he expresses not only con- 
ventional opinion but — equally — what we call "spirit," 
philosophical or religious ideas in particular, or rather the 
attitude resulting from them. Thus the animus is a psy- 
chopomp, a mediator between the conscious and the un- 
conscious and a personification of the latter. Just as the 
anima becomes, through integration, the Eros of conscious- 
ness, so the animus becomes a Logos; and in the same way 
that the anima gives relationship and relatedness to a man's 
consciousness, the animus gives to woman's consciousness 
a capacity for reflection, deliberation, and self-knowledge. 

Phenomenology of the Self : 155 

The effect of anima and animus on the ego is in prin- 
ciple the same. This effect is extremely difficult to eliminate 
because, in the first place, it is uncommonly strong and 
immediately fills the ego-personality with an unshakable 
feeling of Tightness and righteousness. In the second place, 
the cause of the effect is projected and appears to lie in 
objects and objective situations. Both these characteristics 
can, I believe, be traced back to the peculiarities of the 
archetype. For the archetype, of course, exists a priori. 
This may possibly explain the often totally irrational yet 
undisputed and indisputable existence of certain moods 
and opinions. Perhaps these are so notoriously difficult to 
influence because of the powerfully suggestive effect ema- 
nating from the archetype. Consciousness is fascinated by 
it, held captive, as if hypnotized. Very often the ego ex- 
periences a vague feeling of moral defeat and then behaves 
all the more defensively, defiantly, and self-righteously, 
thus setting up a vicious circle which only increases its 
feeling of inferiority. The bottom is then knocked out of 
the human relationship, for, like megalomania, a feeling 
of inferiority makes mutual recognition impossible, and 
without this there is no relationship. 

As I said, it is easier to gain insight into the shadow 
than into the anima or animus. With the shadow, we have 
the advantage of being prepared in some sort by our edu- 
cation, which has always endeavoured to convince people 
that they are not one-hundred-per-cent pure gold. So 
everyone immediately understands what is meant by 
"shadow," "inferior personality," etc. And if he has for- 
gotten, his memory can easily be refreshed by a Sunday 
sermon, his wife, or the tax collector. With the anima and 
animus, however, things are by no means so simple. Firstly, 
there is no moral education in this respect, and secondly, 
most people are content to be self-righteous and prefer 
mutual vilification (if nothing worse!) to the recognition 
of their projections. Indeed, it seems a very natural state 
of affairs for men to have irrational moods and women 

l$6 : Aion 

irrational opinions. Presumably this situation is grounded 
on instinct and must remain as it is to ensure that the 
Empedoclean game of the hate and love of the elements 
shall continue for all eternity. Nature is conservative and 
does not easily allow her courses to be altered; she defends 
in the most stubborn way the inviolability of the preserves 
where anima and animus roam. Hence it is much more 
difficult to become conscious of one's anima/animus pro- 
jections than to acknowledge one's shadow side. One has, 
of course, to overcome certain moral obstacles, such as 
vanity, ambition, conceit, resentment, etc., but in the case 
of projections all sorts of purely intellectual difficulties are 
added, quite apart from the contents of the projection 
which one simply doesn't know how to cope with. And on 
top of all this there arises a profound doubt as to whether 
one is not meddling too much with nature's business by 
prodding into consciousness things which it would have 
been better to leave asleep. 

Although there are, in my experience, a fair number of 
people who can understand without special intellectual or 
moral difficulties what is meant by anima and animus, one 
finds very many more who have the greatest trouble in 
visualizing these empirical concepts as anything concrete. 
This shows that they fall a little outside the usual range 
of experience. They are unpopular precisely because they 
seem unfamiliar. The consequence is that they mobilize 
prejudice and become taboo like everything else that is 

So if we set it up as a kind of requirement that projec- 
tions should be dissolved, because it is wholesomer that 
way and in every respect more advantageous, we are enter- 
ing upon new ground. Up till now everybody has been 
convinced that the idea "my father," "my mother," etc., 
is nothing but a faithful reflection of the real parent, cor- 
responding in every detail to the original, so that when 
someone says "my father" he means no more and no less 
than what his father is in reality. This is actually what he 

Phenomenology of the Self : 157 

supposes he does mean, but a supposition of identity by 
no means brings that identity about. This is where the 
fallacy of the enkekalymmenos ("the veiled one") comes 
in. 8 If one includes in the psychological equation X's pic- 
ture of his father, which he takes for the real father, the 
equation will not work out, because the unknown quantity 
he has introduced does not tally with reality. X has over- 
looked the fact that his idea of a person consists, in the 
first place, of the possibly very incomplete picture he has 
received of the real person and, in the second place, of 
the subjective modifications he has imposed upon this 
picture. X's idea of his father is a complex quantity for 
which the real father is only in part responsible, an in- 
definitely larger share falling to the son. So true is this that 
every time he criticizes or praises his father he is uncon- 
sciously hitting back at himself, thereby bringing about 
those psychic consequences that overtake people who 
habitually disparage or overpraise themselves. If, how- 
ever, X carefully compares his reactions with reality, he 
stands a chance of noticing that he has miscalculated some- 
where by not realizing long ago from his father's behaviour 
that the picture he has of him is a false one. But as a rule 
X is convinced that he is right, and if anybody is wrong 
it must be the other fellow. Should X have a poorly de- 
veloped Eros, he will be either indifferent to the inade- 
quate relationship he has with his father or else annoyed 
by the inconsistency and general incomprehensibility of 
a father whose behaviour never really corresponds to the 
picture X has of him. Therefore X thinks he has every 
right to feel hurt, misunderstood, and even betrayed. 

One can imagine how desirable it would be in such cases 
to dissolve the projection. And there are always optimists 
who believe that the golden age can be ushered in simply 

8 The fallacy, which stems from Eubulidcs ihc Megarian, runs: "Can 
you recognize your father?" Yes. "Can you rccoginzc this veiled 
one?" No. "This veiled one is your father. Hence you can recognize 
your father and not recognize him." 

158 : A ion 

by telling people the right way to go. But just let them 
try to explain to these people that they are acting like a 
dog chasing its own tail. To make a person see the short- 
comings of his attitude considerably more than mere 
"telling" is needed, for more is involved than ordinary 
common sense can allow. What one is up against here 
is the kind of fateful misunderstanding which, under ordi- 
nary conditions, remains forever inaccessible to insight. 
It is rather like expecting the average respectable citizen 
to recognize himself as a criminal. 

I mention all this just to illustrate the order of magni- 
tude to which the anima/animus projections belong, and 
the moral and intellectual exertions that are needed to 
dissolve them. Not all the contents of the aaima and 
animus are projected, however. Many of them appear 
spontaneously in dreams and so on, and many more can 
be made conscious through active imagination. In this way 
we find that thoughts, feelings, and affects are alive in us 
which we would never have believed possible. Naturally, 
possibilities of this sort seem utterly fantastic to anyone 
who has not experienced them himself, for a normal person 
"knows what he thinks." Such a childish attitude on the 
part of the "normal person" is simply the rule, so that no 
one without experience in this field can be expected to 
understand the real nature of anima and animus. With 
these reflections one gets into an entirely new world of 
psychological experience, provided of course that one suc- 
ceeds in realizing it in practice. Those who do succeed can 
hardly fail to be impressed by all that the ego does not 
know and never has known. This increase in self-knowledge 
is still very rare nowadays and is usually paid for in ad- 
vance with a neurosis, if not with something worse. 

The autonomy of the collective unconscious expresses 
itself in the figures of anima and animus. They personify 
those of its contents which, when withdrawn from projec- 
tion, can be integrated into consciousness. To this extent, 
both figures represent functions which filter the contents 

Phenomenology of the Self : 159 

of the collective unconscious through to the conscious 
mind. They appear or behave as such, however, only so 
long as the tendencies of the conscious and unconscious 
do not diverge too greatly. Should any tension arise, these 
functions, harmless till then, confront the conscious mind 
in personified form and behave rather like systems split 
off from the personality, or like part souls. This comparison 
is inadequate in so far as nothing previously belonging to 
the ego-personality has split off from it; on the contrary, 
the two figures represent a disturbing accretion. The rea- 
son for their behaving in this way is that though the con- 
tents of anima and animus can be integrated they them- 
selves cannot, since they are archetypes. As such they are 
the foundation stones of the psychic structure, which in 
its totality exceeds the limits of consciousness and there- 
fore can never become the object of direct cognition. 
Though the effects of anima and animus can be made 
conscious, they themselves are factors transcending con- 
sciousness and beyond the reach of perception and voli- 
tion. Hence they remain autonomous despite the integra- 
tion of their contents, and for this reason they should be 
borne constantly in mind. This is extremely important from 
the therapeutic standpoint, because constant observation 
pays the unconscious a tribute that more or less guarantees 
its co-operation. The unconscious as we know can never 
be "done with" once and for all. It is, in fact, one of the 
most important tasks of psychic hygiene to pay continual 
attention to the symptomatology of unconscious contents 
and processes, for the good reason that the conscious mind 
is always in danger of becoming one-sided, of keeping to 
well-worn paths and getting stuck in blind alleys. The com- 
plementary and compensating function of the unconscious 
ensures that these dangers, which are especially great in 
neurosis, can in some measure be avoided. It is only under 
ideal conditions, when life is still simple and unconscious 
enough to follow the serpentine path of instinct without 
hesitation or misgiving, that the compensation works with 

160 : A ion 

entire success. The more civilized, the more unconscious 
and complicated a man is, the less he is able to follow his 
instincts. His complicated living conditions and the in- 
fluence of his environment are so strong that they drown 
the quiet voice of nature. Opinions, beliefs, theories, and 
collective tendencies appear in its stead and back up all 
the aberrations of the conscious mind. Deliberate atten- 
tion should then be given to the unconscious so that the 
compensation can set to work. Hence it is especially im- 
portant to picture the archetypes of the unconscious not as 
a rushing phantasmagoria of fugitive images but as con- 
stant, autonomous factors, which indeed they are. 

Both these archetypes, as practical experience shows, 
possess a fatality that can on occasion produce tragic re- 
sults. They are quite literally the father and mother of 
all the disastrous entanglements of fate and have long 
been recognized as such by the whole world. Together 
they form a divine pair, 9 one of whom, in accordance with 
his Logos nature, is characterized by pneuma and nous, 
rather like Hermes with his ever-shifting hues, while the 
other, in accordance with her Eros nature, wears the 
features of Aphrodite, Helen (Selene), Persephone, and 
Hecate. Both of them are unconscious powers, "gods" in 
fact, as the ancient world quite rightly conceived them 
to be. To call them by this name is to give them that cen- 
tral position in the scale of psychological values which has 
always been theirs whether consciously acknowledged or 
not; for their power grows in proportion to the degree that 
they remain unconscious. Those who do not see them are 
in their hands, just as a typhus epidemic flourishes best 

Naturally this is not meant as a psychological definition, let alone 
a metaphysical one. As I pointed out in "The Relations between the 
Ego and the Unconscious" {Collected Works, Vol. 7, pars. 296ff.), 
the syzygy consists of three elements: the femininity pertaining to 
the man and the masculinity pertaining to the woman; the experience 
which man has of woman and vice versa; and, finally, the masculine 
and feminine archetypal image. The first element can be integrated 
into the personality by the process of conscious realization, but the 
last one cannot. 

Phenomenology of the Self : 161 

when its source is undiscovered. Even in Christianity the 
divine syzygy has not become obsolete, but occupies the 
highest place as Christ and his bride the Church. 10 Paral- 
lels like these prove extremely helpful in our attempts to 
find the right criterion for gauging the significance of these 
two archetypes. What we can discover about them from 
the conscious side is so slight as to be almost imperceptible. 
It is only when we throw light into the dark depths of the 
psyche and explore the strange and tortuous paths of hu- 
man fate that it gradually becomes clear to us how im- 
mense is the influence wielded by these two factors that 
complement our conscious life. 

Recapitulating, I should like to emphasize that the in- 
tegration of the shadow, or the realization of the personal 
unconscious, marks the first stage in the analytic process, 
and that without it a recognition of anima and animus is 
impossible. The shadow can be realized only through a 
relation to a partner, and anima and animus only through 
a relation to a partner of the opposite sex, because only in 
such a relation do their projections become operative. The 
recognition of the anima gives rise, in a man, to a triad, 
one third of which is transcendent: the masculine subject, 
the opposing feminine subject, and the transcendent anima. 
With a woman the situation is reversed. The missing fourth 
element that would make the triad a quaternity is, in a 
man, the archetype of the Wise Old Man, which I have 
not discussed here, and in a woman the Chthonic Mother. 
These four constitute a half immanent and half transcend- 
ent quaternity, an archetype which i have called the mar- 
riage quaternio. 11 The marriage quaternio provides a 

1M t4 For the Scripture says, God made man male and female; the male 
is Christ, the female is the Church." Second Epistle of Clement to 
the Corinthians, xiv, 2 (translated by Kirsopp Lake, The Apostolic 
Fathers, Locb Classical Library [London and New York, 1 912-13, 
2 vols.], Vol. I, p. 151). In pictorial representations, Mary often takes 
the place of the Church. 

11 "The Psychology of the Transference" {Collected Works, Vol. 16), 
pars. 425ft. Cf. "The Structure and Dynamics of the Self {Collected 
Works, Vol. 9.ii), pars. 358ft., the Naasscne quaternio. 

1 62 : A ion 

schema not only for the self but also for the structure of 
primitive society with its cross-cousin marriage, marriage 
classes, and division of settlements into quarters. The self, 
on the other hand, is a God-image, or at least cannot be 
distinguished from one. Of this the early Christian spirit 
was not ignorant, otherwise Clement of Alexandria could 
never have said that he who knows himself knows God. 12 

ri €f. "The Structure and Dynamics of the Self" (Collected Works, 
Vol. 9.ii), par. 347. 


Marriage as a Psychological 
Relationship 1 

Regarded as a psychological relationship, marriage is a 
highly complex structure made up of a whole series of 
subjective and objective factors, mostly of a very hetero- 
geneous nature. As I wish to confine myself here to the 
purely psychological problems of marriage, I must dis- 
regard in the main the objective factors of a legal and 
social nature, although these cannot fail to have a pro- 
nounced influence on the psychological relationship be- 
tween the marriage partners. 

Whenever we speak of a "psychological relationship" 
we presuppose one that is conscious, for there is no such 
thing as a psychological relationship between two people 
who are in a state of unconsciousness. From the psy- 
chological point of view they would be wholly without 

1 From The Development of Personality. Collected Works, Vol. 17, 
pars. 324-345. f First published as "Die Ehe als psychologische 
Bcziehung," in Das Ehebuch (Cclle, 1925), a volume cdiicd by 
Count Hermann Kcyserling; translated by Theresa Duerr in the Eng- 
lish version, The Book of Marriage (New York," 1926). The original 
was reprinted in Seelenprobleme der Gegenwart (Zurich, 193 1). The 
essay was again translated into English by H. G. and Cary F. Baynes 
in Contributions to Analytical Psychology (London and New York, 
1928), and this version has been freely consulted in the present trans- 
lation. — Editors of The Collected Works.] 


164 .' The Development of Personality 

relationship. From any other point of view, the physiolog- 
ical for example, they could be regarded as related, but one 
could not call their relationship psychological. It must be 
admitted that though such total unconsciousness as I have 
assumed does not occur, there is nevertheless a not in- 
considerable degree of partial unconsciousness, and the 
psychological relationship is limited in the degree to which 
that unconsciousness exists. 

In the child, consciousness rises out of the depths of 
unconscious psychic life, at first like separate islands, which 
gradually unite to form a "continent," a continuous land- 
mass of consciousness. Progressive mental development 
means, in effect, extension of consciousness. With the 
rise of a continuous consciousness, and not before, psy- 
chological relationship becomes possible. So far as we 
know, consciousness is always ego-consciousness. In order 
to be conscious of myself, I must be able to distinguish 
myself from others. Relationship can only take place where 
this distinction exists. But although the distinction may 
be made in a general way, normally it is incomplete, be- 
cause large areas of psychic life still remain unconscious. 
As no distinction can be made with regard to unconscious 
contents, on this terrain no relationship can be established; 
here there still reigns the original unconscious condition 
of the ego's primitive identity with others, in other words 
a complete absence of relationship. 

The young person of marriageable age does, of course, 
possess an ego-consciousness (girls more than men, as a 
rule), but, since he has only recently emerged from the 
mists of original unconsciousness, he is certain to have 
wide areas which still lie in the shadow and which preclude 
to that extent the formation of psychological relationship. 
This means, in practice, that the young man (or woman) 
can have only an incomplete understanding of himself and 
others, and is therefore imperfectly informed as to his, and 
their, motives. As a rule the motives he acts from are 
largely unconscious. Subjectively, of course, he thinks him- 

Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 165 

self very conscious and knowing, for we constantly over- 
estimate the existing content of consciousness, and it is a 
great and surprising discovery when we find that what we 
had supposed to be the final peak is nothing but the first 
step in a very long climb. The greater the area of uncon- 
sciousness, the less is marriage a matter of free choice, as 
is shown subjectively in the fatal compulsion one feels so 
acutely when one is in love. The compulsion can exist even 
when one is not in love, though in less agreeable form. 

Unconscious motivations are of a personal and of a 
general nature. First of all, there are the motives deriving 
from parental influence. The relationship of the young man 
to his mother, and of the girl to her father, is the deter- 
mining factor in this respect. It is the strength of the bond 
to the parents that unconsciously influences the choice 
of husband or wife, either positively or negatively. Con- 
scious love for either parent favours the choice of a like 
mate, while an unconscious tie (which need not by any 
means express itself consciously as love) makes the choice 
difficult and imposes characteristic modifications. In order 
to understand them, one must know first of all the cause of 
the unconscious tie to the parents, and under what condi- 
tions it forcibly modifies, or even prevents, the conscious 
choice. Generally speaking, all the life which the parents 
could have lived, but of which they thwarted themselves 
for artificial motives, is passed on to the children in sub- 
stitute form. That is to say, the children are driven un- 
consciously in a direction that is intended to compensate 
for everything that was left unfulfilled in the lives of their 
parents. Hence it is that excessively moral-minded parents 
have what are called "unmoral" children, or an irrespon- 
sible wastrel of a father has a son with a positively morbid 
amount of ambition, and so on. The worst results flow 
from parents who have kept themselves artificially uncon- 
scious. Take the case of a mother who deliberately keeps 
herself unconscious so as not to disturb the pretence of a 
"satisfactory" marriage. Unconsciously she will bind her 

166 : The Development of Personality 

son to her, more or less as a substitute for a husband. The 
son, if not forced directly into homosexuality, is compelled 
to modify his choice in a way that is contrary to his true 
nature. He may, for instance, marry a girl who is obviously 
inferior to his mother and therefore unable to compete 
with her; or he will fall for a woman of a tyrannical and 
overbearing disposition, who may perhaps succeed in tear- 
ing him away from his mother. The choice of a mate, if 
the instincts have not been vitiated, may remain free from 
these influences, but sooner or later they will make them- 
selves felt as obstacles. A more or less instinctive choice 
might be considered the best from the point of view of 
maintaining the species, but it is not always fortunate 
psychologically, because there is often an uncommonly 
large difference between the purely instinctive personality 
and one that is individually differentiated. And though in 
such cases the race might be improved and invigorated by 
a purely instinctive choice, individual happiness would be 
bound to suffer. (The idea of "instinct" is of course noth- 
ing more than a collective term for all kinds of organic 
and psychic factors whose nature is for the most part un- 

If the individual is to be regarded solely as an instru- 
ment for maintaining the species, then the purely instinc- 
tive choice of a mate is by far the best. But since the 
foundations of such a choice are unconscious, only a kind 
of impersonal liaison can be built upon them, such as can 
be observed to perfection among primitives. If we can 
speak here of a "relationship" at all, it is, at best, only a 
pale reflection of what we mean, a very distant state of 
affairs with a decidedly impersonal character, wholly regu- 
lated by traditional customs and prejudices, the prototype 
of every conventional marriage. 

So far as reason or calculation or the so-called loving 
care of the parents does not arrange the marriage, and 
the pristine instincts of the children are not vitiated either 
by false education or by the hidden influence of accumu- 

Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : i6y 

lated and neglected parental complexes, the marriage 
choice will normally follow the unconscious motivations 
of instinct. Unconsciousness results in non-differentiation, 
or unconscious identity. The practical consequence of this 
is that one person presupposes in the other a psychological 
structure similar to his own. Normal sex life, as a shared 
experience with apparently similar aims, further strength- 
ens the feeling of unity and identity. This state is described 
as one of complete harmony, and is extolled as a great 
happiness ("one heart and one soul'*) — not without good 
reason, since the return to that original condition of un- 
conscious oneness is like a return to childhood. Hence the 
childish gestures of all lovers. Even more is it a return to 
the mother's womb, into the teeming depths of an as yet 
unconscious creativity. It is, in truth, a genuine and in- 
contestable experience of the Divine, whose transcendent 
force obliterates and consumes everything individual; a 
real communion with life and the impersonal power of 
fate. The individual will for self-possession is broken: the 
woman becomes the mother, the man the father, and thus 
both are robbed of their freedom and made instruments 
of the life urge. 

Here the relationship remains within the bounds of the 
biological instinctive goal, the preservation of the species. 
Since this goal is of a collective nature, the psychological 
link between husband and wife will also be essentially 
collective, and cannot be regarded as an individual rela- 
tionship in the psychological sense. We can only speak of 
this when the nature of the unconscious motivations has 
been recognized and the original identity broken down. 
Seldom or never does a marriage develop into an individual 
relationship smoothly and without crises. There is no birth 
of consciousness without pain. 

The ways that lead to conscious realization are many, 
but they follow definite laws. In general, the change begins 
with the onset of the second half of life. The middle period 
of life is a time of enormous psychological importance. 

168 : The Development of Personality 

The child begins its psychological life within very narrow 
limits, inside the magic circle of the mother and the family. 
With progressive maturation it widens its horizon and its 
own sphere of influence; its hopes and intentions are di- 
rected to extending the scope of personal power and pos- 
sessions; desire reaches out to the world in ever-widening 
range; the will of the individual becomes more and more 
identical with the natural goals pursued by unconscious 
motivations. Thus man breathes his own life into things, 
until finally they begin to live of themselves and to mul- 
tiply; and imperceptibly he is overgrown by them. Mothers 
are overtaken by their children, men by their own crea- 
tions, and what was originally brought into being only with 
labour and the greatest effort can no longer be held in 
check. First it was passion, then it became duty, and finally 
an intolerable burden, a vampire that battens on the life 
of its creator. Middle life is the moment of greatest, un- 
folding, when a man still gives himself to his work with 
his whole strength and his whole will. But in this very mo- 
ment evening is born, and the second half of life begins. 
Passion now changes her face and is called duty; "I want" 
becomes the inexorable "I must," and the turnings of the 
pathway that once brought surprise and discovery become 
dulled by custom. The wine has fermented and begins to 
settle and clear. Conservative tendencies develop if all goes 
well; instead of looking forward one looks backward, most 
of the time involuntarily, and one begins to take stock, to 
see how one's life has developed up to this point. The real 
motivations are sought and real discoveries are made. The 
critical survey of himself and his fate enables a man to 
recognize his peculiarities. But these insights do not come 
to him easily; they are gained only through the severest 

Since the aims of the second half of life are different 
from those of the first, to linger too long in the youthful 
attitude produces a division of the will. Consciousness still 
presses forward, in obedience, as it were, to its own inertia, 
but the unconscious lags behind, because the strength and 

Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 169 

inner resolve needed for further expansion have been 
sapped. This disunity with oneself begets discontent, and 
since one is not conscious of the real state of things one 
generally projects the reasons for it upon one's partner. A 
critical atmosphere thus develops, the necessary prelude to 
conscious realization. Usually this state docs not begin 
simultaneously for both partners. Even the best of mar- 
riages cannot expunge individual differences so completely 
that the state of mind of the partners is absolutely iden- 
tical. In most cases one of them will adapt tq marriage 
more quickly than the other. The one who is grounded on 
a positive relationship to the parents will find little or no 
difficulty in adjusting to his or her partner, while the other 
may be hindered by a deep-seated unconscious tie to the 
parents. He will therefore achieve complete adaptation 
only later, and, because it is won with greater difficulty, it 
may even prove the more durable. 

These differences in tempo, and in the degree of spiritual 
development, are the chief causes of a typical difficulty 
which makes its appearance at critical moments. In speak- 
ing of "the degree of spiritual development" of a person- 
ality, I do not wish to imply an especially rich or mag- 
nanimous nature. Such is not the case at all. I mean, rather, 
a certain complexity of mind or nature, comparable to a 
gem with many facets as opposed to the simple cube. There 
are many-sided and rather problematical natures burdened 
with hereditary traits that are sometimes very difficult to 
reconcile. Adaptation to such natures, or their adaptation 
to simpler personalities, is always a problem. These people, 
having a certain tendency to dissociation, generally have 
the capacity to split off irreconcilable traits of character for 
considerable periods, thus passing themselves off as much 
simpler than they are; or it may happen that their many- 
sidedness, their very versatility, lends them a peculiar 
charm. Their partners can easily lose themselves in such a 
labyrinthine nature, finding in it such an abundance of 
possible experiences that their personal interests are com- 
pletely absorbed, sometimes in a not very agreeable way, 

jyo : The Development of Personality 

since their sole occupation then consists in tracking the 
other through all the twists and turns of his character. 
There is always so much experience available that the 
simpler personality is surrounded, if not actually swamped, 
by it; he is swallowed up in his more complex partner and 
cannot see his way out. It is an almost regular occurrence 
for a woman to be wholly contained, spiritually, in her 
husband, and for a husband to be wholly contained, emo- 
tionally, in his wife. One could describe this as the problem 
of the "contained" and the "container." 

The one who is contained feels himself to be living en- 
tirely within the confines of his marriage; his attitude to 
the marriage partner is undivided; outside the marriage 
there exist no essential obligations and no binding inter- 
ests. The unpleasant side of this otherwise ideal partnership 
is. the disquieting dependence upon a personality that can 
never be seen in its entirety, and is therefore not altogether 
credible or dependable. The great advantage lies in his own 
undivided ncss, and this is a factor not to be underrated in 
the psychic economy. 

The container, on the other hand, who in accordance 
with his tendency to dissociation has an especial need to 
unify himself in undivided love for another, will be left 
far behind in this effort, which is naturally very difficult 
for him, by the simpler personality. While he is seeking 
in the latter all the subtleties and complexities that would 
complement and correspond to his own facets, he is disturb- 
ing the other's simplicity. Since in normal circumstances 
simplicity always kas the advantage over complexity, he 
will very soon be obliged to abandon his efforts to arouse 
subtle and intricate reactions in a simpler nature. And 
soon enough his partner, who in accordance with her 2 
simpler nature expects simple answers from him, will give 

*[In translating this and the following passages, I have, for the sake 
of clarity, assumed that the container is the man and the contained 
woman. This assumption is due entirely to the exigencies of English 
grammar, and is not implied in the German text. Needless to say, the 
situation could just as easily be reversed.— Translator.] 

Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : lji 

him plenty to do by constellating his complexities with her 
everlasting insistence on simple answers. Willy-nilly, he 
must withdraw into himself before the suasions of sim- 
plicity. Any mental effort, like the conscious process itself, 
is so much of a strain for the ordinary man that he in- 
variably prefers the simple, even when it does not happen 
to be the truth. And when it represents at least a half- 
truth, then it is all up with him. The simpler nature works 
on the more complicated like a room that is too small, that 
does not allow him enough space. The complicated nature, 
on the other hand, gives the simpler one too many rooms 
with too much space, so that she never knows where she 
really belongs. So it comes about quite naturally that the 
more complicated contains the simpler. The former cannot 
be absorbed in the latter, but encompasses it without being 
itself contained. Yet, since the more complicated has per- 
haps a greater need of being contained than the other, he 
feels himself outside the marriage and accordingly always 
plays the problematical role. The more the contained clings, 
the more the container feels shut out of the relationship. 
The contained pushes into it by her clinging, and the more 
she pushes, the less the container is able to respond. He 
therefore tends to spy out of the window, no doubt un- 
consciously at first; but with the onset of middle age there 
awakens in him a more insistent longing for that unity and 
undividedness which is especially necessary to him on 
account of his dissociated nature. At this juncture things 
are apt to occur that bring the conflict to a head. He be- 
comes conscious of the fact that he is seeking completion, 
seeking the contentedness and undividedness that have 
always been lacking. For the contained this is only a con- 
firmation of the insecurity she has always felt so painfully; 
she discovers that in the rooms which apparently belonged 
to her there dwell other, unwished-for guests. The hope of 
security vanishes, and this disappointment drives her in 
on herself, unless by desperate and violent efforts she can 
succeed in forcing her partner to capitulate, and in extort- 

IJ2 : The Development of Personality 

ing a confession that his longing for unity was nothing but 
a childish or morbid fantasy. If these tactics do not suc- 
ceed, her acceptance of failure may do her a real good, by 
forcing her to recognize that the security she was so des- 
perately seeking in the other is to be found in herself. In 
this way she finds herself and discovers in her own simpler 
nature all those complexities which the container had 
sought for in vain. 

If the container does not break down in face of what 
we are wont to call "unfaithfulness," but goes on believing 
in the inner justification of his longing for unity, he will 
have to put up with his self-division for the time being. A 
dissociation is not healed by being split off, but by more 
complete disintegration. All the powers that strive for 
unity, all healthy desire for selfhood, will resist the disinte- 
gration, and in this way he will become conscious of the 
possibility of an inner integration, which before he had 
always sought outside himself. He will then find his reward 
in an undivided self. 

This is what happens very frequently about the midday 
of life, and in this wise our miraculous human nature en- 
forces the transition that leads from the first half of life 
to the second. It is a metamorphosis from a state in which 
man is only a tool of instinctive nature, to another in which 
he is no longer a tool, but himself: a transformation of 
nature into culture, of instinct into spirit. 

One should take great care not to interrupt this necessary 
development by acts of moral violence, for any attempt 
to create a spiritual attitude by splitting off and suppressing 
the instincts is a falsification. Nothing is more repulsive 
than a furtively prurient spirituality; it is just as unsavoury 
as gross sensuality. But the transition takes a long time, 
and the great majority of people get stuck in the first stages. 
If only we could, like the primitives, leave the unconscious 
to look after this whole psychological development which 
marriage entails, these transformations could be worked 
out more completely and without too much friction. So 
often among so-called "primitives" one comes across spirit- 

Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 173 

ual personalities who immediately inspire respect, as 
though they were the fully matured products of an undis- 
turbed fate. I speak here from personal experience. But 
where among present-day Europeans can one find people 
not deformed by acts of moral violence? We are still bar- 
barous enough to believe in both asceticism and its op- 
posite. But the wheel of history cannot be put back; we 
can only strive towards an attitude that will allow us to live 
out our fate as undisturbedly as the primitive pagan in us 
really wants. Only on this condition can we be sure of not 
perverting spirituality into sensuality, and vice versa; for 
both must live, each drawing life from the other. 

The transformation I have briefly described above is the 
very essence of the psychological marriage relationship. 
Much could be said about the illusions that serve the ends 
of nature and bring about the transformations that are 
characteristic of middle life. The peculiar harmony that 
characterizes marriage during the first half of life — pro- 
vided the adjustment is successful — is largely based on the 
projection of certain archetypal images, as the critical phase 
makes clear. 

Every man carries within him the eternal image of 
woman, not the image of this or that particular woman, 
but a definite feminine image. This image is fundamentally 
unconscious, an hereditary factor of primordial origin en- 
graved in the living organic system of the man, an imprint 
or "archetype" of all the ancestral experiences of the fe- 
male, a deposit, as it were, of all the impressions ever made 
by woman — in short, an inherited system of psychic adapta- 
tion. Even if no women existed, it would still be possible, 
at any given time, to deduce from this unconscious image 
exactly how a woman would have to be constituted psy- 
chically. The same is true of the woman: she too has her 
inborn image of man. Actually, we know from experience 
that it would be more accurate to describe it as an image 
of men, whereas in the case of the man it is rather the 
image of woman. Since this image is unconscious, it is al- 
ways unconsciously projected upon the person of the be- 

174 •' The Development of Personality 

loved, and is one of the chief reasons for passionate attrac- 
tion or aversion. I have called this image the "anima," and 
1 find the scholastic question Habet mulier animam? espe- 
cially interesting, since in my view it is an intelligent one 
inasmuch as the doubt seems justified. Woman has no 
anima, no soul, but she has an animus. The anima has an 
erotic, emotional character, the animus a rationalizing one. 
Hence most of what men say about feminine eroticism, 
and particularly about the emotional life of women, is de- 
rived from their own anima projections and distorted ac- 
cordingly. On the other hand, the astonishing assumptions 
and fantasies that women make about men come from the 
activity of the animus, who produces an inexhaustible 
supply of illogical arguments and false explanations. 

Anima and animus are both characterized by an extra- 
ordinary many-sidedness. In a marriage it is always the 
contained who projects this image upon the container, while 
the latter is only partially able to project his unconscious 
image upon his partner. The more unified and simple this 
partner is, the less complete the projection. In which case, 
this highly fascinating image hangs as it were in mid air, as 
though waiting to be filled out by a living person. There 
are certain types of women who seem to be made by nature 
to attract anima projections; indeed one could almost speak 
of a definite "anima type." The so-called "sphinx-like" 
character is an indispensable part of their equipment, also 
an equivocalness, an intriguing elusiveness — not an indef- 
inite blur that offers nothing, but an indefiniteness that 
seems full of promises, like the speaking silence of a Mona 
Lisa. A woman of this kind is both old and young, mother 
and daughter, of more than doubtful chastity, childlike, 
and yet endowed with a naive cunning that is extremely 
disarming to men. 3 Not every man of real intellectual 
power can be an animus, for the animus must be a master 

3 There are excellent descriptions of this type in H. Rider Haggard's 
She (London, 1887) and Pierre Benoit's UAtlantide (Paris, 1920; 
translated by Mary C. Tongue and Mary Ross as Atlantida, New 
York, 1920). 

Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 175 

not so much of fine ideas as of fine words — words seem- 
ingly full of meaning which purport to leave a great deal 
unsaid. He must also belong to the "misunderstood" class, 
or be in some way at odds with his environment, so that 
the idea of self-sacrifice can insinuate itself. He must be 
a rather questionable hero, a man with possibilities, which is 
not to say that an animus projection may not discover a 
real hero long before he has become perceptible to the 
sluggish wits of the man of "average intelligence." 4 

For man as well as for woman, in so far as they are 
"containers," the filling out of this image is an experience 
fraught with consequences, for it holds the possibility of 
finding one's own complexities answered by a correspond- 
ing diversity. Wide vistas seem to open up in which one 
feels oneself embraced and contained. I say "seem" ad- 
visedly, because the experience may be two-faced. Just as 
the animus projection of a woman can often pick on a man 
of real significance who is not recognized by the mass, and 
can actually help him to achieve his true destiny with her 
moral support, so a man can create for himself a femme in- 
spiratrice by his anima projection. But more often it turns 
out to be an illusion with destructive consequences, a 
failure because his faith was not sufficiently strong. To the 
pessimists I would say that these primordial psychic images 
have an extraordinarily positive value, but I must warn 
the optimists against blinding fantasies and the likelihood 
of the most absurd aberrations. 

One should on no account take this projection for an 
individual and conscious relationship. In its first stages it is 
far from that, for it creates a compulsive dependence based 
on unconscious motives other than the biological ones. 
Rider Haggard's She gives some indication of the curious 
world of ideas that underlies the anima projection. They 

* A passably good account of the animus is to be found in Marie 
Hay's book The Evil Vineyard (New York, 1923), also in Elinor 
Wy lie's Jennifer Lorn (New York, 1 923) and Selma Lagerlofs 
Gosta Berlings Saga ( 1 89 1 ; English translation by P. B. Flach, The 
Story of Gosta Berling, 1898). 

Ij6 : The Development of Personality 

are in essence spiritual contents, often in erotic disguise, 
obvious fragments of a primitive mythological mentality 
that consists of archetypes, and whose totality constitutes 
the collective unconscious. Accordingly, such a relation- 
ship is at bottom collective and not individual. (Benoit, 
who created in L'Atlantide a fantasy figure similar even 
in details to "She," denies having plagiarized Rider Hag- 

If such a projection fastens on to one of the marriage 
partners, a collective spiritual relationship conflicts with 
the collective biological one and produces in the container 
the division or disintegration I have described above. If 
he is able to hold his head above water, he will find him- 
self through this very conflict. In that case the projection, 
though dangerous in itself, will have helped him to pass 
from a collective to an individual relationship. This amounts 
to full conscious realization of the relationship that mar- 
riage brings. Since the aim of this paper is a discussion of 
the psychology of marriage, the psychology of projection 
cannot concern us here. It is sufficient to mention it as a 

One can hardly deal with the psychological marriage 
relationship without mentioning, even at the risk of mis- 
understanding, the nature of its critical transitions. As is 
well known, one understands nothing psychological unless 
one has experienced it oneself. Not that this ever prevents 
anyone from feeling convinced that his own judgment is 
the only true and competent one. This disconcerting fact 
comes from the necessary overvaluation of the momentary 
content of consciousness, for without this concentration 
of attention one could not be conscious at all. Thus it is 
that every period of life has its own psychological truth, 
and the same applies to every stage of psychological de- 
velopment. There are even stages which only the few can 
reach, it being a question of race, family, education, talent, 
and passion. Nature is aristocratic. The normal man is a 
fiction, although certain generally valid laws do exist. Psy- 

Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : IJJ 

chic life is a development that can easily be arrested on the 
lowest levels. It is as though every individual had a specific 
gravity, in accordance with which he either rises, or sinks 
down, to the level where he reaches his limit. His views 
and convictions will be determined accordingly. No won- 
der, then, that by far the greater number of marriages 
reach their upper psychological limit in fulfilment of the 
biological aim, without injury to spiritual or moral health. 
Relatively few people fall into deeper disharmony with 
themselves. Where there is a great deal of pressure from 
outside, the conflict is unable to develop much dramatic 
tension for sheer lack of energy. Psychological insecurity, 
however, increases in proportion to social security, uncon- 
sciously at first, causing neuroses, then consciously, bring- 
ing with it separations, discord, divorces, and other marital 
disorders. On still higher levels, new possibilities of psy- 
chological development are discerned, touching on the 
sphere of religion where critical judgment comes to a halt. 

Progress may be permanently arrested on any of these 
levels, with complete unconsciousness of what might have 
followed at the next stage of development. As a rule 
graduation to the next stage is barred by violent prejudices 
and superstitious fears. This, however, serves a most useful 
purpose, since a man who is compelled by accident to 
live at a level too high for him becomes a fool and a 

Nature is not only aristocratic, she is also esoteric. Yet 
no man of understanding will thereby be induced to make 
a secret of what he knows, for he realizes only too well 
that the secret of psychic development can never be be- 
trayed, simply because that development is a question of 
individual capacity. 

Psychological Types 

General Description of the Types 

I. Introduction 

In the following pages I shall attempt a general description 
of the psychology of the types, starting with the two basic 
types I have termed introverted and extraverted. This will 
be followed by a description of those more special types 
whose peculiarities are due to the fact that the individual 
adapts and orients himself chiefly by means of his most 
differentiated function. The former I would call attitude- 
types, distinguished by the direction of their interest, or of 
the movement of libido; the latter I would call function** 

The attitude-types, as I have repeatedly emphasized in 
the preceding chapters, 1 are distinguished by their attitude 

1 Chapters of Psychological Types {Collected Works, Vol. 6), Part I. 
The present selection is from Part II, pars. 556-671. [Originally 
published in German as Psychologische Typen, Raschcr Vcrlag, 
Zurich, 1921, and as Volume 6 in the Gesamnielte Werke, Rascher 
Vcrlag, Zurich, 1960; 2nd edition, 1967. The H. G. Bayncs transla- 
tion of Psychological Types was published in 1923 by Kcgan Paul, 
London, and Harcourt, Brace and Co., New York. The present 
translation by R. F. C. Hull is based on this.— Editors of The 
Collected Works.] 


General Description of the Types : 179 

to the object. The introvert's attitude is an abstracting one; 
at bottom, he is always intent on withdrawing libido from 
the object, as though he had to prevent the object from gain- 
ing power over him. The extravert, on the contrary, has a 
positive relation to the object. He affirms its importance 
to such an extent that his subjective attitude is constantly 
related to and oriented by the object. The object can never 
have enough value for him, and its importance must always 
be increased. The two types are so different and present 
such a striking contrast that their existence becomes quite 
obvious even to the layman once it has been pointed out. 
Everyone knows those reserved, inscrutable, rather shy 
people who form the strongest possible contrast to the 
open, sociable, jovial, or at least friendly and approachable 
characters who are on good terms with everybody, or 
quarrel with everybody, but always relate to them in some 
way and in turn are affected by them. 

One is naturally inclined, at first, to regard such differ- 
ences as mere idiosyncrasies of character peculiar to in- 
dividuals. But anyone with a thorough knowledge of human 
nature will soon discover that the contrast is by no means 
a matter of isolated individual instances but of typical 
attitudes which are far more common than one with 
limited psychological experience would assume. Indeed, 
as the preceding chapters may have shown, it is a funda- 
mental contrast, sometimes quite clear, sometimes obscured, 
but always apparent when one is dealing with individuals 
whose personality is in any way pronounced. Such people 
are found not merely among the educated, but in all ranks 
of society, so that our types can be discovered among 
labourers and peasants no less than among the most 
highly differentiated members of a community. Sex makes 
no difference cither; one finds the same contrast among 
women of all classes. Such a widespread distribution could 
hardly have. come about if it were merely a question of a 
conscious and deliberate choice oi attitude. In that case, 
one would surely find one particular attitude in one partic- 

i8o : Psychological Types 

ular class of people linked together by a common education 
and background and localized accordingly. But that is not 
so at all; on the contrary, the types seem to be distributed 
quite at random. In the same family one child is introverted, 
the other extraverted. Since the facts show that the attitude- 
type is a general phenomenon having an apparently random 
distribution, it cannot be a matter of conscious judgment 
or conscious intention, but must be due to some uncon- 
scious, instinctive cause. As a general psychological phe- 
nomenon, therefore, the type-antithesis must have some 
kind of biological foundation. 

The relation between subject and object, biologically 
considered, is always one of adaptation, since every relation 
between subject and object presupposes the modification of 
one by the other through reciprocal influence. Adaptation 
consists in these constant modifications. The typical atti- 
tudes to the object, therefore, are processes of adaptation. 
There are in nature two fundamentally different modes of 
adaptation which ensure the continued existence of the 
living organism. The one consists in a high rate of fertility, 
with low powers of defence and short duration of life for 
the single individual; the other consists in equipping the 
individual with numerous means of self-preservation plus 
a low fertility rate. This biological difference, it seems to 
me, is not merely analogous to, but the actual foundation 
of, our two psychological modes of adaptation. I must con- 
tent myself with this broad hint. It is sufficient to note that 
the peculiar nature of the cxtravert constantly urges him to 
expend and propagate himself in every way, while the 
tendency of the introvert is to defend himself against all 
demands from outside, to conserve his energy by with- 
drawing it from objects, thereby consolidating his own 
position. Blake's intuition did not err when he described 
the two classes of men as "prolific" and "devouring." 2 
Just as, biologically, the two modes of adaptation work 

-William Blake, "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell," G. Keynes, 
cd., Complete Writings of William Blake (London, 1925), p. 155. 

General Description of the Types : 181 

equally well and are successful in their own way, so too 
with the typical attitudes. The one achieves its end by a 
multiplicity of relationships, the other by monopoly. 

The fact that children often exhibit a typical attitude 
quite unmistakably even in their earliest years forces us to 
assume that it cannot be the struggle for existence in the 
ordinary sense that determines a particular attitude. It 
might be objected, cogently enough, that even the infant 
at the breast has to perform an unconscious act of psycho- 
logical adaptation, in that the mother's influence leads to 
specific reactions in the child. This argument, while sup- 
ported by incontestable evidence, becomes rather flimsy in 
face of the equally incontestable fact that two children of 
the same mother may exhibit contrary attitudes at an early 
age, though no change in the mother's attitude can be 
demonstrated. Although nothing would induce me to under- 
rate the incalculable importance of parental influence, this 
familiar experience compels me to conclude that the de- 
cisive factor must be looked for in the disposition of the 
child. Ultimately, it must be the individual disposition 
which decides whether the child will belong to this or that 
type despite the constancy of external conditions. Naturally 
I am thinking only of normal cases. Under abnormal con- 
ditions, i.e., when the mother's own attitude is extreme, a 
similar attitude can be forced on the children too, thus 
violating their individual disposition, which might have 
opted for another type if no abnormal external influences 
had intervened. As a rule, whenever such a falsification of 
type takes place as a result of parental influence, the in- 
dividual becomes neurotic later, and can be cured only by 
developing the attitude consonant with his nature. 

As to the individual disposition, I have nothing to say 
except that there arc obviously individuals who have a 
greater capacity, or to whom it is more congenial, to adapt 
in one way and not in another. It may well be that physio- 
logical causes of which we have no knowledge play a part 
in this. I do not think it improbable, in view of one's ex- 

182 : Psychological Types 

perience that a reversal of type often proves exceedingly 
harmful to the physiological well-being of the organism, 
usually causing acute exhaustion. 

2. The Extraverted Type 

In our description of this and the following types it is 
necessary, for the sake of clarity, to distinguish between 
the psychology of consciousness and the psychology of 
the unconscious. We shall first describe the phenomena of 

a) The General Attitude of Consciousness 

Although it is true that everyone orients himself in 
accordance with the data supplied by the outside world, 
we see every day that the data in themselves are only rel- 
atively decisive. The fact that it is cold outside prompts 
one man to put on his overcoat, while another, who wants 
to get hardened, finds this superfluous. One man admires 
the latest tenor because everybody else does, another refuses 
to do so, not because he dislikes him, but because in his 
view the subject of universal admiration is far from having 
been proved admirable. One man resigns himself to cir- 
cumstances because experience has shown him that nothing 
else is possible, another is convinced that though things 
have gone the same way a thousand times before, the 
thousand and first time will be different. The one allows 
himself to be oriented by the given facts, the other holds in 
reserve a view which interposes itself between him and 
the objective data. Now, when orientation by the object 
predominates in such a way that decisions and actions are 
determined not by subjective views but by objective con- 
ditions, we speak of an extraverted attitude. When this is 
habitual, we speak of an extraverted type. If a man 

General Description of the Types : 183 

thinks, feels, acts, and actually lives in a way that is directly 
correlated with the objective conditions and their demands, 
he is extraverted. His life makes it perfectly clear that it is 
the object and not his subjective view that plays the deter- 
mining role in his consciousness. Naturally he has subjective 
views too, but their determining value is less than that of 
the objective conditions. Consequently, he never expects 
to find any absolute factors in his own inner life, since 
the only ones he knows are outside himself. Like Epime- 
theus, his inner life is subordinated to external necessity, 
though not without a struggle; but it is always the objective 
determinant that wins in the end. His whole conscious- 
ness looks outward, because the essential and decisive deter- 
minant always comes from outside. But it comes from out- 
side only because that is where he expects it to come from. 
All the peculiarities of his psychology, except those that 
depend on the primacy of one particular psychological 
function or on idiosyncrasies of character, follow from 
this basic attitude. His interest and attention are directed 
to objective happenings, particularly those in his immediate 
environment. Not only people but things seize and rivet 
his attention. Accordingly, they also determine his actions, 
which are fully explicable on those grounds. The actions of 
the extravert are recognizably related to external conditions. 
In so far as they are not merely reactive to environmental 
stimuli, they have a character that is always adapted to the 
actual circumstances, and they find sufficient play within 
the limits of the objective situation. No serious effort is 
made to transcend these bounds. It is the same with his 
interest: objective happenings have an almost inexhaustible 
fascination for him, so that ordinarily he never looks for 
anything else. 

The moral laws governing his actions coincide with the 
demands of society, that is, with the prevailing moral stand- 
point. If this were to change, the extravert's subjective 
moral guidelines would change accordingly, without this 
altering his general psychological habits in any way. This 

184 : Psychological Types 

strict determination by objective factors does not mean, as 
one might suppose, a complete let alone ideal adaptation 
to the general conditions of life. In the eyes of the extravert, 
of course, an adjustment of this kind to the objective situa- 
tion must seem like complete adaptation, since for him 
no other criterion exists. But from a higher point of view 
it by no means follows that the objective situation is in 
all circumstances a normal one. It can quite well be tem- 
porarily or locally abnormal. An individual who adjusts 
himself to it is admittedly conforming to the style of his 
environment, but together with his whole surroundings he 
is in an abnormal situation with respect to the universally 
valid laws of life. He may indeed thrive in such surround- 
ings, but only up to the point where he and his milieu 
meet with disaster for transgressing these laws. He will 
share the general collapse to exactly the same extent as he 
was adjusted to the previous situation. Adjustment is not 
adaptation; adaptation requires far more than merely going 
along smoothly with the conditions of the moment. (Once 
again I would remind the reader of Spitteler's Epimetheus.) 
It requires observance of laws more universal than the 
immediate conditions of time and place. The very adjust- 
ment of the normal extraverted type is his limitation. He 
owes his normality on the one hand to his ability to fit 
into existing conditions with comparative ease. His re- 
quirements are limited to the objectively possible, for in- 
stance to the career that holds out good prospects at this 
particular moment; he does what is needed of him, or what 
is expected of him, and refrains from all innovations that 
are not entirely self-evident or that in any way exceed the 
expectations of those around him. On the other hand, his 
normality must also depend essentially on whether he 
takes account of his subjective needs and requirements, 
and this is just his weak point, for the tendency of his 
type is so outer-directed that even the most obvious of all 
subjective facts, the condition of his own body, receives 
scant attention. The body is not sufficiently objective or 

General Description of the Types : 185 

"outside," so that the satisfaction of elementary needs 
which are indispensable to physical well-being is no longer 
given its due. The body accordingly suffers, to say nothing 
of the psyche. The extravert is usually unaware of this 
latter fact, but it is all the more apparent to his household. 
He feels his loss of equilibrium only when it announces 
itself in abnormal body sensations. These he cannot ignore. 
It is quite natural that he should regard them as concrete 
and "objective," since with his type of mentality they cannot 
be anything else — for him. In others he at once sees "imagi- 
nation" at work. A too extraverted attitude can also become 
so oblivious of the subject that the latter is sacrificed com- 
pletely to so-called objective demands — to the demands, for 
instance, of a continually expanding business, because 
orders are piling up and profitable opportunities have to be 

This is the extravert's danger: he gets sucked into objects 
and completely loses himself in them. The resultant func- 
tional disorders, nervous or physical, have a compensatory 
value, as they force him into an involuntary self-restraint. 
Should the symptoms be functional, their peculiar char- 
acter may express his psychological situation in symbolic 
form; for instance, a singer whose fame has risen to danger- 
ous heights that tempt him to expend too much energy 
suddenly finds he cannot sing high notes because of some 
nervous inhibition. Or a man of modest beginnings who 
rapidly reaches a social position of great influence with 
wide prospects is suddenly afflicted with all the symptoms 
of a mountain sickness. 3 Again, a man about to marry a 
woman of doubtful character whom he adores and vastly 
overestimates is seized with a nervous spasm of the oesoph- 
agus and has to restrict himself to two cups of milk a 
day, each of which takes him three hours to consume. 
All visits to the adored are effectively stopped, and he 

3 For a detailed discussion of this case see Jung, Analytical Psy- 
chology: Its Theory and Practice (New York and London, 1968), 
pp. 871T.— J.C. 

i86 : Psychological Types 

has no choice but to devote himself to the nourishment of 
his body. Or a man who can no longer carry the weight 
of the huge business he has built up is afflicted with nervous 
attacks of thirst and speedily falls a victim to hysterical 

Hysteria is, in my view, by far the most frequent neurosis 
of the extraverted type. The hallmark of classic hysteria is 
an exaggerated rapport with persons in the immediate 
environment and an adjustment to surrounding conditions 
that amounts to imitation. A constant tendency to make 
himself interesting and to produce an impression is a basic 
feature of the hysteric. The corollary of this is his prover- 
bial suggestibility, his proneness to another person's influ- 
ence. Another unmistakable sign of the extraverted hysteric 
is his effusiveness, which occasionally carries him into the 
realm of fantasy, so that he is accused of the "hysterical 
lie." The hysterical character begins as an exaggeration of 
the normal attitude; it is then complicated by compensatory 
reactions from the unconscious, which counteract the 
exaggerated extraversion by means of physical symptoms 
that force the libido to introvert. The reaction of the un- 
conscious produces another class of symptoms having a 
more introverted character, one of the most typical being 
a morbid intensification of fantasy activity. 

After this general outline of the extraverted attitude 
we shall now turn to a description of the modifications 
which the basic psychological functions undergo as a result 
of this attitude. 

b) The Attitude of the Unconscious 

It may perhaps seem odd that I should speak of an 
"attitude of the unconscious." As I have repeatedly indi- 
cated, I regard the attitude of the unconscious as com- 
pensatory to consciousness. According to this view, the un- 

General Description of the Types : 187 

conscious has as good a claim to an "attitude" as the 

In the preceding section I emphasized the tendency to 
one-sidedness in the extraverted attitude, due to the as- 
cendency of the object over the course of psychic events. 
The extraverted type is constantly tempted to expend him- 
self for the apparent benefit of the object, to assimilate 
subject to object. I have discussed in some detail the harm- 
ful consequences of an exaggeration of the extraverted 
attitude, namely, the suppression of the subjective factor. 
It is only to be expected, therefore, that the psychic com- 
pensation of the conscious extraverted attitude will lay 
special weight on the subjective factor, and that we shall 
find a markedly egocentric tendency in the unconscious. 
Practical experience proves this to be the case. I do not 
wish to cite case material at this point, so must refer my 
readers to the ensuing sections, where I try to present the 
characteristic attitude of the unconscious in each function- 
type. In this section we are concerned simply with the 
compensation of the extraverted attitude in general, so I 
shall confine myself to describing the attitude of the un- 
conscious in equally general terms. 

The attitude of the unconscious as an effective comple- 
ment to the conscious extraverted attitude has a definitely 
introverting character. It concentrates the libido on the 
subjective factor, that is, on all those needs and demands 
that are stifled or repressed by the conscious attitude. As 
may be gathered from what was said in the previous sec- 
tion, a purely objective orientation does violence to a 
multitude of subjective impulses, intentions, needs, and 
desires and deprives them of the libido that is their natural 
right. Man is not a machine that can be remodelled for 
quite other purposes as occasion demands, in the hope that 
it will go on functioning as regularly as before but in a 
quite different way. He carries his whole history with him; 
in his very structure is written the history of mankind. 
This historical element in man represents a vital need to 

i88 : Psychological Types 

which a wise psychic economy must respond. Somehow the 
past must come alive and participate in the present. Total 
assimilation to the object will always arouse the protest 
of the suppressed minority of those elements that belong 
to the past and have existed from the very beginning. 

From these general considerations it is easy to see why 
the unconscious demands of the extravert have an essen- 
tially primitive, infantile, egocentric character. When Freud 
says that the unconscious "can do nothing but wish" this 
is very largely true of the unconscious of the extravert. 
His adjustment to the objective situation and his assimila- 
tion to the object prevent low-powered subjective impulses 
from reaching consciousness. These impulses (thoughts, 
wishes, affects, needs, feelings, etc.) take on a regressive 
character according to the degree of repression; the less 
they are acknowledged, the more infantile and archaic they 
become. The conscious attitude robs them of all energy 
that is readily disposable, only leaving them the energy of 
which it cannot deprive them. This residue, which still 
possesses a potency not to be underestimated, can be 
described only as primordial instinct. Instinct can never be 
eradicated in an individual by arbitrary measures; it requires 
the slow, organic transformation of many generations to 
effect a radical change, for instinct is the energic expression 
of the organism's make-up. 

Thus with every repressed impulse a considerable amount 
of energy ultimately remains, of an instinctive character, 
and preserves its potency despite the deprivation that made 
it unconscious. The more complete the conscious attitude 
of extraversion is, the more infantile and archaic 'the un- 
conscious attitude will be. The egoism which characterizes 
the extravert's unconscious attitude goes far beyond mere 
childish selfishness; it verges on the ruthless and the brutal. 
Here we find in full flower the incest-wish described by 
Freud. It goes without saying that these things are entirely 
unconscious and remain hidden from the layman so long 
as the extraversion of the conscious attitude is not extreme. 

General Description of the Types : i8g 

But whenever it is exaggerated, the unconscious comes to 
light in symptomatic form; its egoism, infantilism, and 
archaism lose their original compensatory character and 
appear in more or less open opposition to the conscious ' 
attitude. This begins as an absurd exaggeration of the con- 
scious standpoint, aiming at a further repression of the 
unconscious, but usually it ends in a reductio ad absurdum 
of the conscious attitude and hence in catastrophe. The 
catastrophe may take an objective form, since the objective 
aims gradually become falsified by the subjective. I remem- 
ber the case of a printer who, starting as a mere employee, 
worked his way up after years of hard struggle till at last 
he became the owner of a flourishing business. The more 
it expanded, the more it tightened its hold on him, until 
finally it swallowed up all his other interests. This proved 
his ruin. As an unconscious compensation of his exclusive 
interest in the business, certain memories of his childhood 
came to life. As a child he had taken great delight in paint- 
ing and drawing. But instead of renewing this capacity for 
its own sake as a compensating hobby, he channelled it 
into his business and began wondering how he might em- 
bellish his products in an "artistic" way. Unfortunately 
his fantasies materialized: he actually turned out stuff that 
suited his own primitive and infantile taste, with the result 
that after a very few years his business went to pieces. He 
acted in accordance with one of our "cultural ideals," 
which says that any enterprising person has to concentrate 
everything on the one aim in view. But he went too far, 
and merely fell a victim to the power of his infantile de- 

The catastrophe can, however, also be subjective and 
take the form of a nervous breakdown. This invariably 
happens when the influence of the unconscious finally 
paralyzes all conscious action. The demands of the un- 
conscious then force themselves imperiously on conscious- 
ness and bring about a disastrous split which shows itself 
in one of two ways: either the subject no longer knows 

igo : Psychological Types 

what he really wants and nothing interests him, or he 
wants too much at once and has too many interests, but in 
impossible things. The suppression of infantile and primi- 
tive demands for cultural reasons easily leads to a neurosis 
or to the abuse of narcotics such as alcohol, morphine, 
cocaine, etc. In more extreme cases the split ends in suicide. 

It is an outstanding peculiarity of unconscious impulses 
that, when deprived of energy by lack of conscious recog- 
nition, they take on a destructive character, and this hap- 
pens as soon as they cease to be compensatory. Their com- 
pensatory function ceases as soon as they reach a depth 
corresponding to a cultural level absolutely incompatible 
with our own. From this moment the unconscious impulses 
form a block in every way opposed to the conscious atti- 
tude, and its very existence leads to open conflict. 

Generally speaking, the compensating attitude of the 
unconscious finds expression in the maintenance of the 
psychic equilibrium. A normal extraverted attitude does 
not, of course, mean that the individual invariably behaves 
in accordance with the extraverted schema. Even in the 
same individual many psychological processes may be ob- 
served that involve the mechanism of introversion. We call 
a mode of behaviour extraverted only when the mechanism 
of extraversion predominates. In these cases the most differ- 
entiated function is always employed in an extraverted way, 
whereas the inferior functions are introverted; 4 in other 
words, the superior function is the most conscious one 
and completely under conscious control, whereas the less 
differentiated functions are in part unconscious and far 
less under the control of consciousness. The superior 
function is always an expression of the conscious person- 
ality, of its aims, will, and general performance, whereas 
the less differentiated functions fall into the category of 

* The "psychological functions" here referred to are those named in 
Selection 2, "The Structure of the Psyche," and discussed at length 
below, namely, Sensation, Thinking, Feeling, and Intuition. See also 
supra, Editor's Introduction, pp, xxvi-xxviii. — J.C, 

General Description of the Types : 191 

things that simply "happen" to one. These things need not 
be mere slips of the tongue or pen and other such over- 
sights, they can equally well be half or three-quarters in- 
tended, for the less differentiated functions also possess a 
slight degree of consciousness. A classic example of this is 
the extraverted feeling type, who enjoys an excellent feeling 
rapport with the people around him, yet occasionally "hap- 
pens" to express opinions of unsurpassable tactlessness. 
These opinions spring from his inferior and half-conscious 
thinking, which, being only partly under his control and 
insufficiently related to the object, can be quite ruthless in 
its effects. 

The less differentiated functions of the extravert always 
show a highly subjective colouring with pronounced ego- 
centricity and personal bias, thus revealing their close con- 
nection with the unconscious. The unconscious is con- 
tinually coming to light through them. It should not be 
imagined that the unconscious lies permanently buried 
under so many overlying strata that it can only be un- 
covered, so to speak, by a laborious process of excavation. 
On the contrary, there is a constant influx of unconscious 
contents into the conscious psychological process, to such 
a degree that at times it is hard for the observer to decide 
which character traits belong to the conscious and which 
to the unconscious personality. This difficulty is met with 
mainly in people who are given to express themselves more 
profusely than others. Naturally it also depends very 
largely on the attitude of the observer whether he seizes 
hold of the conscious or the unconscious character of the 
personality. Generally speaking, a judging observer will 
tend to seize on the conscious character, while a perceptive 
observer will be more influenced by the unconscious char- 
acter, since judgment is chiefly concerned with the con- 
scious motivation of the psychic process, while perception 
registers the process itself. But in so far as we apply judg- 
ment and perception in equal measure, it may easily happen 
that a personality appears to us as both introverted and 

jg2 : Psychological Types 

extraverted, so that we cannot decide at first to which 
attitude the superior function belongs. In such cases only 
a thorough analysis of the qualities of each function can 
help us to form a valid judgment. We must observe which 
function is completely under conscious control, and which 
functions have a haphazard and spontaneous character. The 
former is always more highly differentiated than the latter, 
which also possess infantile and primitive traits. Occasion- 
ally the superior function gives the impression of normality, 
while the others have something abnormal or pathological 
about them. 

c) The Peculiarities of the Basic Psychological 
Functions in the Extraverted Attitude 


As a consequence of the general attitude of extraversion, 
thinking is oriented by the object and objective data. This 
gives rise to a noticeable peculiarity. Thinking in general 
is fed on the one hand from subjective and in the last 
resort unconscious sources, and on the other hand from 
objective data transmitted by sense-perception. Extraverted 
thinking is conditioned in a larger measure by the latter 
than by the former. Judgment always presupposes a cri- 
terion; for the extraverted judgment, the criterion supplied 
by external conditions is the valid and determining one, no 
matter whether it be represented directly by an objective, 
perceptible fact or by an objective idea; for an objective 
idea is equally determined by external data or borrowed 
from outside even when it is subjectively sanctioned. Ex- 
traverted thinking, therefore, need not necessarily be purely 
concretistic thinking; it can just as well be purely ideal 
thinking, if for instance it can be shown that the ideas it 
operates with are largely borrowed from outside, i.e., have 
been transmitted by tradition and education. So in judging 

General Description of the Types : 193 

whether a particular thinking is extraverted or not we must 
first ask: by what criterion does it judge — does it come 
from outside, or is its origin subjective? A further criterion 
is the direction the thinking takes in drawing conclusions 
— whether it is principally directed outwards or not. It is 
no proof of its extraverted nature that it is preoccupied 
with concrete objects, since my thinking may be pre- 
occupied with a concrete object either because I am ab- 
stracting my thought from it or because I am concretizing 
my thought through it. Even when my thinking is pre- 
occupied with concrete things and could be described as 
extraverted to that extent, the direction it will take still 
remains an essential characteristic and an open question — 
namely, whether or not in its further course it leads back 
again to objective data, external facts, or generally accepted 
ideas. So far as the practical thinking of the business man, 
the technician, or the scientific investigator is concerned, its 
outer-directedness is obvious enough. But in the case of 
the philosopher it remains open to doubt when his thinking 
is directed to ideas. We then have to inquire whether these 
ideas are simply abstractions from objective experience, 
in which case they would represent higher collective con- 
cepts comprising a sum of objective facts, or whether (if 
they are clearly not abstractions from immediate experi- 
ence) they may not be derived from tradition or borrowed 
from the intellectual atmosphere of the time. In the 
latter case, they fall into the category of objective data, and 
accordingly this thinking should be called extraverted. 

Although I do not propose to discuss the nature of intro- 
verted thinking at this point, reserving it for a later section 
(infra, pp. 237-45), it is essential that I should say a 
few words about it before proceeding further. For if one 
reflects on what I have just said about extraverted thinking, 
one might easily conclude that this covers everything that 
is ordinarily understood as thinking. A thinking that is 
directed neither to objective facts nor to general ideas, 
one might argue, scarcely deserves the name "thinking" 

194 * Psychological Types 

at all. I am fully aware that our age and its most eminent 
representatives know and acknowledge only the extra- 
verted type of thinking. This is largely because all the 
thinking that appears visibly on the surface in the form of 
science or philosophy or even art either derives directly 
from objects or else flows into general ideas. For both 
these reasons it appears essentially understandable, even 
though it may not always be self-evident, and it is there* 
fore regarded as valid. In this sense it might be said that the 
extraverted intellect oriented by objective data is actually 
the only one that is recognized. But — and now I come to 
the question of the introverted intellect — there also exists 
an entirely different kind of thinking, to which the term 
"thinking" can hardly be denied: it is a kind that is oriented 
neither by immediate experience of objects nor by tradi- 
tional ideas. I reach this other kind of thinking in the 
following manner: when my thoughts are preoccupied with 
a concrete object or a general idea, in such a way that the 
course of my thinking eventually leads me back to my 
starting-point, this intellectual process is not the only 
psychic process that is going on in me. I will disregard all 
those sensations and feelings which become noticeable as 
a more or less disturbing accompaniment to my train of 
thought, and will merely point out that this very thinking 
process which starts from the object and returns to the 
object also stands in a constant relation to the subject, 
This relation is a sine qua non, without which no thinking 
process whatsoever could take place. Even though my think- 
ing process is directed, as far as possible, to objective data, 
it is still my subjective process, and it can neither avoid nor 
dispense with this admixture of subjectivity. Struggle as I 
may to give an objective orientation to my train of thought, 
I cannot shut out the parallel subjective process and its 
running accompaniment without extinguishing the very 
spark of life from my thought. This parallel process has 
a natural and hardly avoidable tendency to subjectify the 
objective data and assimilate them to the subject. 

Now when the main accent lies on the subjective process, 

General Description of the Types : 195 

that other kind of thinking arises which is opposed to extra- 
verted thinking, namely, that purely subjective orientation 
which I call introverted. This thinking is neither determined 
by objective data nor directed to them; it is a thinking that 
starts from the subject and is directed to subjective ideas or 
subjective facts. I do not wish to enter more fully into this 
kind of thinking here; I have merely established its exist- 
ence as the necessary complement of extraverted thinking 
and brought it into clearer focus. 

Extraverted thinking, then, comes into existence only 
when the objective orientation predominates. This fact 
does nothing to alter the logic of thinking; it merely 
constitutes that difference between thinkers which James 
considered a matter of temperament. 5 Orientation to the 
object, as already explained, makes no essential change in 
the thinking function; only its appearance is altered. It 
has the appearance of being captivated by the object, as 
though without the external orientation it simply could not 
exist. It almost seems as though it were a mere sequela of 
external facts, or as though it could reach its highest point 
only when flowing into some general idea. It seems to be 
constantly affected by the objective data and to draw con- 
clusions only with their consent. Hence it gives one the 
impression of a certain lack of freedom, of occasional short- 
sightedness, in spite of all its adroitness within the area 
circumscribed by the objects. What I am describing is 
simply the impression this sort of thinking makes on the 
observer, who must himself have a different standpoint, 
otherwise it would be impossible for him to observe the 
phenomenon of extraverted thinking at all. But because 
of his different standpoint he sees only its outward aspect, 
not its essence, whereas the thinker himself can apprehend 
its essence but not its outward aspect. Judging by appear- 
ances can never do justice to the essence of the thing, hence 
the verdict is in most cases depreciatory. 

In its essence this thinking is no less fruitful and creative 

William James, Pragmatism (London, 191 1): the "tough minded" 
and the "tender minded" lemperamenls. 

ig6 : Psychological Types 

than introverted thinking, it merely serves other ends. This 
difference becomes quite palpable when extraverted think- 
ing appropriates material that is the special province of 
introverted thinking; when, for instance, a subjective con- 
viction is explained analytically in terms of objective data 
or as being derived from objective ideas. For our scientific 
consciousness, however, the difference becomes even more 
obvious when introverted thinking attempts to bring ob- 
jective data into connections not warranted by the object — 
in other words, to subordinate them to a subjective idea. 
Each type of thinking senses the other as an encroachment 
on its own province, and hence a sort of shadow effect is 
produced, each revealing to the other its least favourable 
aspect. Introverted thinking then appears as something 
quite arbitrary, while extraverted thinking seems dull and 
banal. Thus the two orientations are incessantly at war. 
One might think it easy enough to put an end to this 
conflict by making a clear distinction between objective 
and subjective data. Unfortunately, this is impossible, 
though not a few have attempted it. And even if it were 
possible it would be a disastrous proceeding, since in 
themselves both orientations are one-sided and of limited 
validity, so that each needs the influence of the other. When 
objective data predominate over thinking to any great ex- 
tent, thinking is sterilized, becoming a mere appendage of 
the object and no longer capable of abstracting itself into 
an independent concept. It is then reduced to a kind of 
"after-thought," by which I do not mean "reflection" but 
a purely imitative thinking which affirms nothing beyond 
what was visibly and immediately present in the objective 
data in the first place. This thinking naturally leads di- 
rectly back to the object, but never beyond it, not even to 
a linking of experience with an objective idea. Conversely, 
when it has an idea for an object, it is quite unable to 
experience its practical, individual value, but remains stuck 
in a more or less tautological position. The materialistic 
mentality is an instructive example of this. 

General Description of the Types : 197 

When extraverted thinking is subordinated to objective 
data as a result of over-determination by the object, it en- 
grosses itself entirely in the individual experience and 
accumulates a mass of undigested empirical material. The 
oppressive weight of individual experiences having little or 
no connection with one another produces a dissociation of 
thought which usually requires psychological compensation. 
This must consist in some simple, general idea that gives 
coherence to the disordered whole, or at least affords the 
possibility of such. Ideas like "matter" or "energy" serve 
this purpose. But when the thinking depends primarily not 
on objective data but on some second-hand idea, the very 
poverty of this thinking is compensated by an all the more 
impressive accumulation of facts congregating round a 
narrow and sterile point of view, with the result that many 
valuable and meaningful aspects are completely lost sight 
of. Many of the allegedly scientific outpourings of our own 
day owe their existence to this wrong orientation. 

The Extraverted Thinking Type 

It is a fact of experience that the basic psychological 
functions seldom or never all have the same strength or 
degree of development in the same individual. As a rule, 
one or the other function predominates in both strength 
and development. When thinking holds prior place among 
the psychological functions, i.e., when the life of an in- 
dividual is mainly governed by reflective thinking so that 
every important action proceeds, or is intended to proceed, 
from intellectually considered motives, we may fairly call 
this a thinking type. Such a type may be either introverted 
or extraverted. We will first discuss the extraverted think- 
ing type. 

This type will, by definition, be a man whose constant 
endeavour — in so far, of course, as he is a pure type — is to 
make all his activities dependent on intellectual conclusions, 

ig8 : Psychological Types 

which in the last resort are always oriented by objective 
data, whether these be external facts or generally accepted 
ideas. This type of man elevates objective reality, or an 
objectively oriented intellectual formula, into the ruling 
principle not only for himself but for his whole environ- 
ment. By this formula good and evil are measured, and 
beauty and ugliness determined. Everything that agrees 
with this formula is right, everything that contradicts it is 
wrong, and anything that passes by it indifferently is merely 
incidental. Because this formula seems to embody the entire 
meaning of life, it is made into a universal law which must 
be put into effect everywhere all the time, both individually 
and collectively. Just as the extraverted thinking type sub- 
ordinates himself to his formula, so, for their own good, 
everybody round him must obey it too, for whoever re- 
fuses to obey it is wrong — he is resisting the universal law, 
and is therefore unreasonable, immoral, and without a con- 
science. His moral code forbids him to tolerate exceptions; 
his ideal must under all circumstances be realized, for in 
his eyes it is the purest conceivable formulation of objective 
reality, and therefore must also be a universally valid truth, 
quite indispensable for the salvation of mankind. This is 
not from any great love for his neighbour, but from the 
higher standpoint of justice and truth. Anything in his own 
nature that appears to invalidate this formula is a mere 
imperfection, an accidental failure, something to be elimi- 
nated on the next occasion, or, in the event of further 
failure, clearly pathological. If tolerance for the sick, the 
suffering, or the abnormal should chance to be an ingredient 
of the formula, special provisions will be made for humane 
societies, hospitals, prisons, missions, etc., or at least ex- 
tensive plans will be drawn up. Generally the motive of 
justice and truth is not sufficient to ensure the actual execu- 
tion of such projects; for this, real Christian charity is 
needed, and this has more to do with feeling than with any 
intellectual formula. "Oughts" and "musts" bulk large in 
this programme. If the formula is broad enough, this type 

General Description of the Types : 199 

may play a very useful role in social life as a reformer or 
public prosecutor or purifier of conscience, or as the prop- 
agator of important innovations. But the more rigid the 
formula, the more he develops into a martinet, a quibbler, 
and a prig, who would like to force himself and others into 
one mould. Here we have the two extremes between 
which the majority of these types move. 

In accordance with the nature of the extraverted attitude, 
the influence and activities of these personalities are the 
more favourable and beneficial the further from the centre 
their radius extends. Their best aspect is to be found at the 
periphery of their sphere of influence. The deeper we pene- 
trate into their own power province, the more we feel the 
unfavourable effects of their tyranny. A quite different life 
pulses at the periphery, where the truth of the formula can 
be felt as a vaulable adjunct to the rest. But the closer we 
come to centre of power where the formula operates, the 
more life withers away from everything that does not 
conform to its dictates. Usually it is the nearest relatives 
who have to taste the unpleasant consequences of the 
extraverted formula, since they are the first to receive its 
relentless benefits. But in the end it is the subject himself 
who suffers most — and this brings us to the reverse side 
of the psychology of this type. 

The fact that an intellectual formula never has been 
and never will be devised which could embrace and express 
the manifold possibilities of life must lead to the inhibition 
or exclusion of other activities and ways of living that are 
just as important. In the first place, all those activities that 
are dependent on feeling will become repressed in such a 
type — for instance, aesthetic activities, taste, artistic sense, 
cultivation of friends, etc. Irrational phenomena such as 
religious experiences, passions, and suchlike are often 
repressed to the point of complete unconsciousness. Doubt- 
less there are exceptional people who are able to sacrifice 
their entire life to a particular formula, but for most of us 
such exclusiveness is impossible in the long run. Sooner 

200 : Psychological Types 

or later, depending on outer circumstances or inner disposi- 
tion, the potentialities repressed by the intellectual attitude 
will make themselves indirectly felt by disturbing the 
conscious conduct of life. When the disturbance reaches 
a definite pitch, we speak of a neurosis. In most cases it 
does not go so far, because the individual instinctively 
allows himself extenuating modifications of his formula in 
a suitably rationalistic guise, thus creating a safety valve. 
The relative or total unconsciousness of the tendencies 
and functions excluded by the conscious attitude keeps 
them in an undeveloped state. In comparison with the 
conscious function they are inferior. To the extent that 
they are unconscious, they become merged with the rest 
of the unconscious contents and acquire a bizarre char- 
acter. To the extent that they are conscious, they play 
only a secondary role, though one of considerable im- 
portance for the over-all psychological picture. The first 
function to be affected by the conscious inhibition is feel- 
ing, since it is the most opposed to the rigid intellectual 
formula and is therefore repressed the most intensely. No 
function can be entirely eliminated — it can only be greatly 
distorted. In so far as feeling is compliant and lets itself 
be subordinated, it has to support the conscious attitude 
and adapt to its aims. But this is possible only up to a 
point; part of it remains refractory and has to be repressed. 
If the repression is successful, the subliminal feeling then 
functions in a way that is opposed to the conscious aims, 
even producing effects whose cause is a complete enigma 
to the individual. For example, the conscious altruism of 
this type, which is often quite extraordinary, may be 
thwarted by a secret self-seeking which gives a selfish 
twist to actions that in themselves are disinterested. Purely 
ethical intentions may lead him into critical situations 
which sometimes have more than a semblance of being 
the outcome of motives far from ethical. There are guard- 
ians of public morals who suddenly find themselves in 
compromising situations, or rescue workers who are them- 

General Description of the Types : 201 

selves in dire need of rescue. Their desire to save others 
leads them to employ means which are calculated to bring 
about the very thing they wished to avoid. There are ex- 
traverted idealists so consumed by their desire for the 
salvation of mankind that they will not shrink from any 
lie or trickery in pursuit of their ideal. In science there are 
not a few painful examples of highly respected investiga- 
tors who are so convinced of the truth and general validity 
of their formula that they have not scrupled to falsify evi- 
dence in its favour. Their sanction is: the end justifies the 
means. Only an inferior feeling function, operating uncon- 
sciously and in secret, could seduce otherwise reputable 
men into such aberrations. 

The inferiority of feeling in this type also manifests 
itself in other ways. In keeping with the objective formula, 
the conscious attitude becomes more or less impersonal, 
often to such a degree that personal interests suffer. If the 
attitude is extreme, all personal considerations are lost 
sight of, even those affecting the subject's own person. His 
health is neglected, his social position deteriorates, the 
most vital interests of his family — health, finances, morals 
— are violated for the sake of the ideal. Personal sympathy 
with others must in any case suffer unless they too happen 
to espouse the same ideal. Often the closest members of 
his family, his own children, know such a father only as a 
cruel tyrant, while the outside world resounds with the 
fame of his humanity. Because of the highly impersonal 
character of the conscious attitude, the unconscious feel- 
ings are extremely personal and oversensitive, giving rise 
to secret prejudices, a readiness, for instance, to miscon- 
strue any opposition to his formula as personal ill-will, or 
a constant tendency to make negative assumptions about 
other people in order to invalidate their arguments in ad- 
vance — in defence, naturally, of his own touchiness. His 
unconscious sensitivity makes him sharp in tone, acrimoni- 
ous, aggressive. Insinuations multiply. His feelings have a 
sultry and resentful character — always a mark of the in- 

202 : Psychological Types 

fcrior function, Magnanimous as he may be in sacrificing 
himself to his intellectual goal, his feelings are petty, mis~ 
trustful, crotchety, and conservative. Anything new that 
is not already contained in his formula is seen through a 
veil of unconscious hatred and condemned accordingly. 
As late as the middle of the last century a certain doctor, 
famed for his humanitarianism, threatened to dismiss an 
assistant for daring to use a thermometer, because the 
formula decreed that temperature must be taken by the 

The more the feelings are repressed, the more deleterious 
is their secret influence on thinking that is otherwise be- 
yond reproach. The intellectual formula, which because of 
its intrinsic value might justifiably claim general recogni- 
tion, undergoes a characteristic alteration as a result of 
this unconscious personal sensitiveness: it becomes rigidly 
dogmatic. The self-assertion of the personality is trans- 
ferred to the formula. Truth is no longer allowed to speak 
for itself; it is identified with the subject and treated like 
a sensitive darling whom an evil-minded critic has wronged. 
The critic is demolished, if possible with personal invec- 
tive, and no argument is too gross to be used against him. 
The truth must be trotted out, until finally it begins to 
dawn on the public that it is not so much a question of 
truth as of its personal begetter. 

The dogmatism of the intellectual formula sometimes 
undergoes further characteristic alterations, due not so 
much to the unconscious admixture of repressed personal 
feelings as to a contamination with other unconscious 
factors which have become fused with them. Although 
reason itself tells us that every intellectual formula can 
never be anything more than a partial truth and can never 
claim general validity, in practice the formula gains such 
an ascendency that all other possible standpoints are thrust 
into the background. It usurps the place of all more gen- 
eral, less definite, more modest and therefore more truthful 
views of life. It even supplants that general view of life we 

General Description of the Types : 203 

call religion. Thus the formula becomes a religion, al- 
though in essentials it has not the slightest connection with 
anything religious. At the same time, it assumes the essen- 
tially religious quality of absoluteness. It becomes an in- 
tellectual superstition. But now all the psychological tend- 
encies it has repressed build up a counter-position in the 
unconscious and give rise to paroxysms of doubt. The 
more it tries to fend off the doubt, the more fanatical the 
conscious attitude becomes, for fanaticism is nothing but 
over-compensated doubt. This development ultimately 
leads to an exaggerated defence of the conscious position 
and to the formation of a counter-position in the uncon- 
scious absolutely opposed to it; for instance, conscious 
rationalism is opposed by an extreme irrationality, and a 
scientific attitude by one that is archaic and superstitious. 
This explains those bigoted and ridiculous views well- 
known in the history of science which have proved stum- 
bling-blocks to many an eminent investigator. Frequently 
the unconscious counter-position is embodied in a woman. 
In my experience this type is found chiefly among men, 
since, in general, thinking tends more often to be a domi- 
nant function in men than in women. When thinking 
dominates in a woman it is usually associated with a pre- 
dominantly intuitive cast of mind. 

The thinking of the extraverted type is positive, i.e., 
productive. It leads to the discovery of new facts or to 
general conceptions based on disparate empirical material. 
It is usually synthetic too. Even when it analyzes it con- 
structs, because it is always advancing beyond the analysis 
to a new combination, to a further conception which re- 
unites the analyzed material in a different way or adds 
something to it. One could call this kind of judgment 
predicative. A characteristic feature, at any rate, is that 
it is never absolutely depreciative or destructive, since it 
always substitutes a fresh value for the one destroyed. 
This is because the thinking of this type is the main chan- 
nel into which his vital energy flows. The steady How of 

204 •' Psychological Types 

life manifests itself in his thinking, so that his thought has 
a progressive, creative quality. It is not stagnant or re^ 
gressive. But it can become so if it fails to retain prior 
place in his consciousness. In that case it loses the quality 
of a positive, vital activity. It follows in the wake of other 
functions and becomes Epimethean, plagued by after- 
thoughts, contenting itself with constant broodings on 
things past and gone, chewing them over in an effort to 
analyze and digest them. Since the creative element is now 
lodged in another function, thinking no longer progresses: 
it stagnates. Judgment takes on a distinct quality of in- 
herence: it confines itself entirely to the range of the given 
material, nowhere overstepping it. It is satisfied with more 
or less abstract statements which do not impart any value 
to the material that is not already inherent in it. Such 
judgments are always oriented to the object, and they 
affirm nothing more about an experience than its objective 
and intrinsic meaning. We may easily observe this type 
of thinking in people who cannot refrain from tacking on 
to an impression or experience some rational and doubt- 
less very valid remark which in no way ventures beyond 
the charmed circle of the objective datum. At bottom such 
a remark merely says: "I have understood it because after- 
wards I can think it." And there the matter ends. At best 
such a judgment amounts to no more than putting the 
experience in an objective setting, where it quite obviously 
belonged in the first place. 

But whenever a function other than thinking predomi- 
nates in consciousness to any marked degree, thinking, so 
far as it is conscious at all and not directly dependent on 
the dominant function, assumes a negative character. If 
it is subordinated to the dominant function it may actually 
wear a positive aspect, but closer scrutiny will show that 
it simply mimics the dominant function, supporting it with 
arguments that clearly contradict the laws of logic proper 
to thinking. This kind of thinking is of no interest for our 
present discussion. Our concern is rather with the nature 

General Description of the Types : 20 5 

of a thinking which cannot subordinate itself to another 
function but remains true to its own principle. To observe 
and investigate this thinking is not easy, because it is more 
or less constantly repressed by the conscious attitude. 
Hence, in the majority of cases, it must first be retrieved 
from the background of consciousness, unless it should 
come to the surface accidently in some unguarded moment. 
As a rule it has to be enticed with some such question as 
"Now what do you really think?" or "What is your private 
view of the matter?" Or perhaps one may have to use a 
little cunning, framing the question something like this: 
"What do you imagine, then, that / really think about it?" 
One should adopt this device when the real thinking is 
unconscious and therefore projected. The thinking that 
is enticed to the surface in this way has characteristic 
qualities, and it was these 1 had in mind when I described 
it as negative. Its habitual mode is best expressed by the 
two words "nothing but." Goethe personified this thinking 
in the figure of Mephistopheles. Above all it shows a dis- 
tinct tendency to trace the object of its judgment back to 
some banality or other, thus stripping it of any significance 
in its own right. The trick is to make it appear dependent 
on something quite commonplace. Whenever a conflict 
arises between two men over something apparently objec- 
tive and impersonal, negative thinking mutters "Cherchez 
la femme." Whenever somebody defends or advocates a 
cause, negative thinking never asks about its importance 
but simply: "What does he get out of it?" The dictum 
ascribed to Moleschott, "Der Mensch ist, was er isst" (man 
is what he eats, or, rendered more freely, what you eat 
you are), likewise comes under this heading, as do many 
other aphorisms I need not quote here. 

The destructive quality of this thinking, as well as its 
limited usefulness on occasion, does not need stressing. 
But there is still another form of negative thinking, which 
at first glance might not be recognized as such, and that 
is theosophical thinking, which today is rapidly spreading 

206 : Psychological Types 

in all parts of the world, presumably In reaction to the 
materialism of the recent past, Theosophical thinking has 
an air that is not in the least reductive, since it exalts 
everything to a transcendental and world-embracing idea. 
A dream, for instance, is no longer just a dream, but an 
experience "on another plane." The hitherto inexplicable 
fact of telepathy is very simply explained as "vibrations" 
passing from one person to another. An ordinary nervous 
complaint is explained by the fact that something has 
collided with the "astral body," Certain ethnological pecu- 
liarities of the dwellers on the Atlantic seaboard are easily 
accounted for by the submergence of Atlantis, and so on. 
We have only to open a theosophical book to be over- 
whelmed by the realization that everything is already ex- 
plained, and that "spiritual science" has left no enigmas 
unsolved. But, at bottom, this kind of thinking is just as 
negative as materialistic thinking. When the latter regards 
psychology as chemical changes in the ganglia or as the 
extrusion and retraction of cell-pseudopodia or as an in- 
ternal secretion, this is just as much a superstition as 
theosophy. The only difference is that materialism reduces 
everything to physiology, whereas theosophy reduces every- 
thing to Indian metaphysics. When a dream is traced back 
to an overloaded stomach, this is no explanation of the 
dream, and when we explain telepathy as vibrations we 
have said just as little. For what are "vibrations"? Not 
only are both methods of explanation futile, they are 
actually destructive, because by diverting interest away 
from the main issue, in one case to the stomach and in the 
other to imaginary vibrations, they hamper any serious 
investigation of the problem by a bogus explanation. Either 
kind of thinking is sterile and sterilizing. Its negative qual- 
ity is due to the fact that it is so indescribably cheap, im- 
poverished, and lacking in creative energy. It is a thinking 
taken in tow by other functions. 

General Description of the Types : 207 


Feeling in the extraverted attitude is likewise oriented 
by objective data, the object being the indispensable de- 
terminant of the quality of feeling. The extravert's feeling 
is always in harmony with objective values. For anyone 
who has known feeling only as something subjective, the 
nature of extraverted feeling will be difficult to grasp, be- 
cause it has detached itself as much as possible from the 
subjective factor and subordinated itself entirely to the 
influence of the object. Even when it appears not to be 
qualified by a concrete object, it is none the less still under 
the spell of traditional or generally accepted values of 
some kind. I may feel moved, for instance, to say that 
something is "beautiful" or "good," not because I find it 
"beautiful" or "good" from my own subjective feeling 
about it, but because it is fitting and politic to call it so, 
since a contrary judgment would upset the general feeling 
situation. A feeling judgment of this kind is not by any 
means a pretence or a lie, it is simply an act of adjust- 
ment. A painting, for instance, is called "beautiful" be- 
cause a painting hung in a drawing room and bearing a 
well-known signature is generally assumed to be beautiful, 
or because to call it "hideous" would presumably offend 
the family of its fortunate possessor, or because the visitor 
wants to create a pleasant feeling atmosphere, for which 
purpose everything must be felt as agreeable. These feel- 
ings are governed by an objective criterion. As such they 
are genuine, and represent the feeling function as a whole. 

In precisely the same way as extraverted thinking strives 
to rid itself of subjective influences, extraverted feeling 
has to undergo a process of differentiation before it is 
finally denuded of every subjective trimming. The valua- 
tions resulting from the act of feeling either correspond 
directly with objective values or accord with traditional and 
generally accepted standards. This kind of feeling is very 

2o8 : Psychological Types 

largely responsible for the fact that so many people flock 
to the theatre or to concerts, or go to church, and do so 
moreover with their feelings correctly adjusted. Fashions, 
too, owe their whole existence to it, and, what is far more 
valuable, the positive support of social, philanthropic, and 
other such cultural institutions. In these matters extraverted 
feeling proves itself a creative factor. Without it, a har- 
monious social life would be impossible. To that extent 
extraverted feeling is just as beneficial and sweetly reason- 
able in its effects as extraverted thinking. But these salutary 
effects are lost as soon as the object gains ascendency. The 
force of extraverted feeling then pulls the personality into 
the object, the object assimilates him, whereupon the per- 
sonal quality of the feeling, which constitutes its chief 
charm, disappears. It becomes cold, "unfeeling," untrust- 
worthy. It has ulterior motives, or at least makes an im- 
partial observer suspect them. It no longer makes that 
agreeable and refreshing impression which invariably ac- 
companies genuine feeling; instead, one suspects a pose, or 
that the person is acting, even though he may be quite 
unconscious of any egocentric motives. Overextraverted 
feeling may satisfy aesthetic expectations, but it does not 
speak to the heart; it appeals merely to the senses or — 
worse still — only to reason. It can provide the aesthetic 
padding for a situation, but there it stops, and beyond that 
its effect is nil. It has become sterile. If this process goes 
any further, a curiously contradictory dissociation of feel- 
ing results: everything becomes an object of feeling valua- 
tions, and innumerable relationships are entered into which 
are all at variance with each other. As this situation would 
become quite impossible if the subject received anything 
like due emphasis, even the last vestiges of a real personal 
standpoint are suppressed. The subject becomes so en- 
meshed in the network of individual feelings processes 
that to the observer it seems as though there were merely 
a feeling process and no longer a subject of feeling. Feel- 
ing in this state has lost all human warmth; it gives the 

General Description of the Types : 209 

impression of being put on, fickle, unreliable, and in the 
worst cases hysterical. 

The Exlraverted Feeling Type 

As feeling is undeniably a more obvious characteristic 
of feminine psychology than thinking, the most pronounced 
feeling types are to be found among women. When ex- 
traverted feeling predominates we speak of an extraverted 
feeling type. Examples of this type that I can call to mind 
are, almost without exception, women. The woman of this 
type follows her feeling as a guide throughout life. As a 
result of upbringing her feeling has developed into -an ad- 
justed function subject to conscious control. Except in 
extreme cases, her feeling has a personal quality, even 
though she may have repressed the subjective factor to a 
large extent. Her personality appears adjusted in relation 
to external conditions. Her feelings harmonize with ob- 
jective situations and general values. This is seen nowhere 
more clearly than in her love choice: the "suitable" man 
is loved, and no one else; he is suitable not because he 
appeals to her hidden subjective nature — about which she 
usually knows nothing — but because he comes up to all 
reasonable expectations in the matter of age, position, in- 
come, size and respectability of his family, etc. One could 
easily reject such a picture as ironical or cynical, but I am 
fully convinced that the love feeling of this type of woman 
is in perfect accord with her choice. It is genuine and not 
just shrewd. There are countless "reasonable" marriages of 
this kind and they are by no means the worst. These 
women are good companions and excellent mothers so 
long as the husbands and children are blessed with the 
conventional psychic constitution. 

But one can feel "correctly" only when feeling is not 
disturbed by anything else. Nothing disturbs feeling so 
much as thinking. It is therefore understandable that in 

210 : Psychological Types 

this type thinking will be kept in abeyance as much as 
possible. This does not mean that the woman does not 
think at all; on the contrary, she may think a great deal 
and very cleverly, but her thinking is never sui generis — 
it is an Epimethean appendage to her feeling. What she 
cannot feel, she cannot consciously think. "But I can't 
think what I don't feel," such a type said to me once in 
indignant tones. So far as her feeling allows, she can think 
very well, but every conclusion, however logical, that might 
lead to a disturbance of feeling is rejected at the outset. It 
is simply not thought. Thus everything that fits in with 
objective values is good, and is loved, and everything else 
seems to her to exist in a world apart. 

But a change comes over the picture when the im- 
portance of the object reaches a still higher level. As al- 
ready explained, the subject then becomes so assimilated 
to the object that the subject of feeling is completely en- 
gulfed. Feeling loses its personal quality, and becomes feel- 
ing for its own sake; the personality seems wholly dis- 
solved in the feeling of the moment. But since actual life 
is a constant succession of situations that evoke different 
and even contradictory feelings, the personality gets split 
up into as many different feeling states. At one moment 
one is this, at another something quite different — to all 
appearances, for in reality such a multiple personality is 
impossible. The basis of the ego always remains the same 
and consequently finds itself at odds with the changing 
feeling states. To the observer, therefore, the display of 
feeling no longer appears as a personal expression of the 
subject but as an alteration of the ego — a mood, in other 
words. Depending on the degree of dissociation between 
the ego and the momentary state of feeling, signs of self- 
disunity will become clearly apparent, because the orig- 
inally compensatory attitude of the unconscious has turned 
into open opposition. This shows itself first of all in ex- 
travagant displays of feeling, gushing talk, loud expostula- 
tions, etc., which ring hollow: "The lady doth protest too 

General Description of the Types : 211 

much." It is at once apparent that some kind of resistance 
is being overcompensated, and one begins to wonder 
whether these demonstrations might not turn out quite 
different. And a little later they do. Only a very slight al- 
teration in the situation is needed to call forth at once 
just the opposite pronouncement on the selfsame object. 
As a result of these experiences the observer is unable to 
take either pronouncement seriously. He begins to reserve 
judgment. But since, for this type, it is of the highest im- 
portance to establish an intense feeling of rapport with 
the environment, redoubled efforts are now required to 
overcome this reserve. Thus, in the manner of a vicious 
circle, the situation goes from bad to worse. The stronger 
the feeling relation to the object, the more the unconscious 
opposition comes to the surface. 

We have already seen that the extraverted feeling type 
suppresses thinking most of all because this is the function 
most liable to disturb feeling. For the same reason, think- 
ing totally shuts out feeling if ever it wants to reach any 
kind of pure results, for nothing is more liable to prejudice 
and falsify thinking than feeling values. But, as I have said, 
though the thinking of the extraverted feeling type is re- 
pressed as an independent function, the repression is not 
complete; it is repressed only so far as its inexorable logic 
drives it to conclusions that are incompatible with feeling. 
It is suffered to exist as a servant of feeling, or rather as 
its slave. Its backbone is broken; it may not operate on 
its own account, in accordance with its own laws. But since 
logic nevertheless exists and enforces its inexorable con- 
clusions, this must take place somewhere, and it takes place 
outside consciousness, namely in the unconscious. Accord- 
ingly the unconscious o( this type contains first and fore- 
most a peculiar kind of thinking, a thinking that is in- 
fantile, archaic, negative. So long as the conscious feeling 
preserves its personal quality, or, to put it another way, 
so long as the personality is not swallowed up in successive 
states of feeling, this unconscious thinking remains com- 

212 : Psychological Types 

pensatory. But as soon as the personality is dissociated 
and dissolves into a succession of contradictory feeling 
states, the identity of the ego is lost and the subject lapses 
into the unconscious. When this happens, it gets associated 
with the unconscious thinking processes and occasionally 
helps them to the surface. The stronger the conscious feel- 
ing is and the more ego-less it becomes, the stronger grows 
the unconscious opposition. The unconscious thoughts 
gravitate round just the most valued objects and mercilessly 
strip them of their value. The "nothing but" type of think- 
ing comes into its own here, since it effectively depoten- 
tiates all feelings that are bound to the object. The un- 
conscious thinking reaches the surface in the form of 
obsessive ideas which are invariably of a negative and de- 
preciatory character. Women of this type have moments 
when the most hideous thoughts fasten on the very objects 
most valued by their feelings. This negative thinking uti- 
lizes every infantile prejudice or comparison for the de- 
liberate purpose of casting aspersions on the feeling value, 
and musters every primitive instinct in the attempt to 
come out with "nothing but" interpretations. It need 
hardly be remarked that this procedure also mobilizes 
the collective unconscious and activates its store of pri- 
mordial images, thus bringing with it the possibility of a 
regeneration of attitude on a different basis. Hysteria, with 
the characteristic infantile sexuality of its unconscious 
world of ideas, is the principal form of neurosis in this 

Summary of the Extraverted Rational Types 

I call the two preceding types rational or judging types 
because they are characterized by the supremacy of the 
reasoning and judging functions. It is a general distinguish- 
ing mark of both types that their life is, to a great extent, 
subordinated to rational judgment. But we have to con- 

General Description of the Types : 213 

sider whether by "rational" we are speaking from the 
standpoint of the individual's subjective psychology or 
from that of the observer, who perceives and judges from 
without. This observer could easily arrive at a contrary 
judgment, especially if he intuitively apprehended merely 
the outward behaviour of the person observed and judged 
accordingly. On the whole, the life of this type is never 
dependent on rational judgment alone; it is influenced in 
almost equal degree by unconscious irrationality. If ob- 
servation is restricted to outward behaviour, without any 
concern for the internal economy of the individual's con- 
sciousness, one may get an even stronger impression of 
the irrational and fortuitous nature of certain unconscious 
manifestations than of the reasonableness of his conscious 
intentions and motivations. I therefore base my judgment 
on what the individual feels to be his conscious psychology. 
But I am willing to grant that one could equally well con- 
ceive and present such a psychology from precisely the 
opposite angle. I am also convinced that, had I myself 
chanced to possess a different psychology, I would have 
described the rational types in the reverse way, from the 
standpoint of the unconscious — as irrational, therefore. 
This aggravates the difficulty of a lucid presentation of 
psychological matters and immeasurably increases the pos- 
sibility of misunderstandings. The arguments provoked by 
these misunderstandings are, as a rule, quite hopeless be- 
cause each side is speaking at cross purposes. This ex- 
perience is one reason the more for basing my presentation 
on the conscious psychology of the individual, since there 
at least we have a definite objective footing, which com- 
pletely drops away the moment we try to base our psy- 
chological rationale on the unconscious. For in that case 
the observed object would have no voice in the matter at 
all, because there is nothing about which he is more un- 
informed than his own unconscious. The judgment is then 
left entirely to the subjective observer — a sure guarantee 
that it will be based on his own individual psychology, 

214 •• Psychological Types 

which would be forcibly imposed on the observed. To my 
mind, this is the case with the psychologies of both Freud 
and Adler, The individual is completely at the mercy of 
the judging observer, which can never be the case when 
the conscious psychology of the observed is accepted as a 
basis. He after all is the only competent judge, since he 
alone knows his conscious motives. 

The rationality that characterizes the conscious conduct 
of life in both these types involves a deliberate exclusion 
of everything irrational and accidental. Rational judgment, 
in such a psychology, is a force that coerces the untidiness 
and fortuitousness of life into a definite pattern, or at least 
tries to do so. A definite choice is made from among all 
the possibilities it offers, only the rational ones being ac- 
cepted; but on the other hand the independence and in- 
fluence of the psychic functions which aid the perception 
of life's happenings are consequently restricted. Naturally 
this restriction of sensation and intuition is not absolute. 
These functions exist as before, but their products are sub- 
ject to the choice made by rational judgment. It is not the 
intensity of a sensation as such that decides action, for in- 
stance, but judgment. Thus, in a sense, the functions of 
perception share the same fate as feeling in the case of 
the first type, or thinking in that of the second. They are 
relatively repressed, and therefore in an inferior state of 
differentiation. This gives a peculiar stamp to the uncon- 
scious of both our types: what they consciously and in- 
tentionally do accords with reason (their reason, of 
course), but what happens to them accords with the na- 
ture of infantile, primitive sensations and intuitions. At 
ail events, what happens to these types is irrational (from 
their standpoint). But since there are vast numbers of 
people whose lives consist more of what happens to them 
than of actions governed by rational intentions, such a 
person, after observing them closely, might easily describe 
both our types as irrational. And one has to admit that 
only too often a man's unconscious makes a far stronger 

General Description of the Types : 215 

impression on an observer than his consciousness does, 
and that his actions are of considerably more importance 
than his rational intentions. 

The rationality of both types is object-oriented and 
dependent on objective data. It accords with what is 
collectively considered to be rational. For them, noth- 
ing is rational save what is generally considered as 
such. Reason, however, is in large part subjective and 
individual. In our types this part is repressed, and increas- 
ingly so as the object gains in importance. Both the sub- 
ject and his subjective reason, therefore, are in constant 
danger of repression, and when they succumb to it they 
fall under the tyranny of the unconscious, which in this 
case possesses very unpleasant qualities. Of its peculiar 
thinking we have already spoken. But, besides that, there 
are primitive sensations that express themselves compul- 
sively, for instance in the form of compulsive pleasure- 
seeking in every conceivable form; there are also primitive 
intuitions that can become a positive torture to the person 
concerned and to everybody in his vicinity. Everything that 
is unpleasant and painful, everything that is disgusting, 
hateful, and evil, is sniffed out or suspected, and in most 
cases it is a half-truth calculated to provoke misunder- 
standings of the most poisonous kind. The antagonistic 
unconscious elements are so strong that they frequently 
disrupt the conscious rule of reason; the individual be- 
comes the victim of chance happenings, which exercise 
a compulsive influence over him either because they pander 
to his sensations or because he intuits their unconscious 


Sensation, in the cxtraverted attitude, is pre-eminently 
conditioned by the object. As sense perception, sensation 
is naturally dependent on objects. But, just as naturally, it 

216 : Psychological Types 

is also dependent on the subject, for which reason there 
is subjective sensation of a kind entirely different from 
objective sensation. In the extraverted attitude the sub- 
jective component of sensation, so far as its conscious 
application is concerned, is either inhibited or repressed. 
Similarly, as an irrational function, sensation is largely re- 
pressed when thinking or feeling holds prior place; that is 
to say, it is a conscious function only to the extent that the 
rational attitude of consciousness permits accidental per- 
ceptions to become conscious contents — in a word, regis- 
ters them. The sensory function is, of course, absolute in 
the stricter sense; everything is seen or heard, for instance, 
to the physiological limit, but not everything attains the 
threshold value a perception must have in order to be 
apperceived. It is different when sensation itself is para- 
mount instead of merely seconding another function. In 
this case no element of objective sensation is excluded and 
nothing is repressed (except the subjective component al- 
ready mentioned). 

As sensation is chiefly conditioned by the object, those 
objects that excite the strongest sensations will be decisive 
for the individual's psychology. The result is a strong 
sensuous tie to the object. Sensation is therefore a vital 
function equipped with the strongest vital instinct. Ob- 
jects are valued in so far as they excite sensations, and, so 
far as lies within the power of sensation, they are fully 
accepted into consciousness whether they are compatible 
with rational judgments or not. The sole criterion of their 
value is the intensity of the sensation produced by their 
objective qualities. Accordingly, all objective processes 
which excite any sensations at all make their appearance 
in consciousness. However, it is only concrete, sensuously 
perceived objects or processes that excite sensations; those, 
exclusively, which everyone everywhere would sense as con- 
crete. Hence the orientation of such an individual accords 
with purely sensuous reality. The judging, rational functions 
are subordinated to the concrete facts of sensation, and 

General Description of the Types : 217 

thus have all the qualities of the less differentiated func- 
tions, exhibiting negative, infantile, and archaic traits. The 
function most repressed is naturally the opposite of sensa- 
tion — intuition, the function of unconscious perception. 

The Extraverted Sensation Type 

No other human type can equal the extraverted sensa- 
tion type m realism. His sense for objective facts is ex- 
traordinarily developed. His life is an accumulation of 
actual experiences of concrete objects, and the more pro- 
nounced his type, the less use does he make of his experi- 
ence. In certain cases the events of his life hardly deserve 
the name "experience" at all. What he experiences serves at 
most as a guide to fresh sensations; anything new that 
comes within his range of interest is acquired by way of 
sensation and has to serve its ends. Since one is inclined 
to regard a highly developed reality-sense as a sign of 
rationality, such people will be esteemed as very rational. 
But in actual fact this is not the case, since they are just as 
much at the mercy of their sensations in the face of irra- 
tional, chance happenings as they are in the face of ra- 
tional ones. This type — the majority appear to be men — 
naturally does not think he is at the "mercy" of sensation. 
He would ridicule this view as quite beside the point, be- 
cause- sensation for him is a concrete expression of life — 
it is simply real life lived to the full. His whole aim is 
concrete enjoyment, and his morality is oriented accord- 
ingly. Indeed, true enjoyment has its own special morality, 
its own moderation and lawfulness, its own unselfishness 
and willfngncss to make sacrifices. It by no means follows 
that he is just sensual or gross, for he may differentiate 
his sensation to the finest pitch of aesthetic purity with- 
out ever deviating from his principle of concrete sensation 
however abstract his sensations may be. Wulfcn's Dcr 
Gcnussinensch: ein Cicerone im riicksichtslosen Lebens- 

218 : Psychological Types 

genuss C) is the unvarnished confession of a type of this 
sort, and the book seems to me worth reading on that 
account alone. 

On the lower levels, this type is the lover of tangible 
reality, with little inclination for reflection and no desire 
to dominate. To feel the object, to have sensations and if 
possible enjoy them — that is his constant aim. He is by no 
means unlovable; on the contrary, his lively capacity for 
enjoyment makes him very good company; he is usually a 
jolly fellow, and sometimes a refined aesthete. In the for- 
mer case the great problems of life hang on a good or 
indifferent dinner; in the latter, it's all a question of good 
taste. Once an object has given him a sensation, nothing 
more remains to be said or done about it. It cannot be 
anything except concrete and real; conjectures that go 
beyond the concrete are admitted only on condition that 
they enhance sensation. The intensification does not neces- 
sarily have to be pleasurable, for this type need not be 
a common voluptuary; he is merely desirous of the strong- 
est sensations, and these, by his very nature, he can re- 
ceive only from outside. What comes from inside seems to 
him morbid and suspect. He always reduces his thoughts 
and feelings to objective causes, to influences emanating 
from objects, quite unperturbed by the most glaring viola- 
tions of logic. Once he can get back to tangible reality in 
any form he can breathe again. In this respect he is sur- 
prisingly credulous. He will unhesitatingly connect a psy- 
chogenic symptom with a drop in the barometer, while on 
the other hand the existence of a psychic conflict seems 
to him morbid imagination. His love is unquestionably 
rooted in the physical attractions of its object. If normal, 
he is conspicuously well adjusted to reality. That is his 
ideal, and it even makes him considerate of others. As 
he has no ideals connected with ideas, he has no reason 
to act in any way contrary to the reality of things as they 
are. This manifests itself in all the externals of his life. He 
6 "The Sybarite: A Guide to the Ruthless Enjoyment of Life." 

General Description of the Types : 219 

dresses well, as befits the occasion; he keeps a good table 
with plenty of drink for his friends, making them feel 
very grand, or at least giving them to understand that his 
refined taste entitles him to make a few demands of them. 
He may even convince them that certain sacrifices are de- 
cidedly worth while for the sake of style. 

The more sensation predominates, however, so that the 
subject disappears behind the sensation, the less agreeable 
does this type become. He develops into a crude pleasure- 
seeker, or else degenerates into an unscrupulous, effete 
aesthete. Although the object has become quite indispensa- 
ble to him, yet, as something existing in its own right, it 
is none the less devalued. It is ruthlessly exploited and 
squeezed dry, since now its sole use is to stimulate sensa- 
tion. The bondage to the object is carried to the extreme 
limit. In consequence, the unconscious is forced out of its 
compensatory role into open opposition. Above all, the 
repressed intuitions begin to assert themselves in the form 
of projections. The wildest suspicions arise; if the object 
is a sexual one, jealous fantasies and anxiety states gain 
the upper hand. More acute cases develop every sort of 
phobia, and, in particular, compulsion symptoms. The 
pathological contents have a markedly unreal character, 
with a frequent moral or religious streak. A pettifogging 
captiousness follows, or a grotesquely punctilious morality 
combined with primitive, "magical" superstitions that fall 
back on abstruse rites. All these things have their source in 
the repressed inferior functions which have been driven 
into harsh opposition to the conscious attitude, and they 
appear in a guise that is all the more striking because they 
rest on the most absurd assumptions, in complete contrast 
to the conscious sense of reality. The whole structure of 
thought and feeling seems, in this second personality, to 
be twisted into a pathological parody: reason turns into 
hair-splitting pedantry, morality into dreary moralizing and 
blatant Pharisaism, religion into ridiculous superstition, and 
intuition, the noblest gift of man, into meddlesome of- 

220 : Psychological Types 

ficiousness, poking into every corner; instead of gazing 
into the far distance, it descends to the lowest level of 
human meanness. 

The specifically compulsive character of the neurotic 
symptoms is the unconscious counterpart of the easy-going 
attitude of the pure sensation type, who, from the stand- 
point of rational judgment, accepts indiscriminately every- 
thing that happens. Although this does not by any means 
imply an absolute lawlessness and lack of restraint, it 
nevertheless deprives him of the essential restraining power 
of judgment. But rational judgment is a conscious coercion 
which the rational type appears to impose on himself of his 
own free will. This coercion overtakes the sensation type 
from the unconscious, in the form of compulsion. More- 
over, the very existence of a judgment means that the ra- 
tional type's relation to the object will never become an 
absolute tie, as it is in the case of the sensation type. When 
his attitude attains an abnormal degree of one-sidedness, 
therefore, he is in danger of being overpowered by the 
unconscious in the same measure as he is consciously in 
the grip of the object. If he should become neurotic, it is 
much harder to treat him by rational means because the 
functions which the analyst must turn to are in a relatively 
undifferentiated state, and little or no reliance can be 
placed on them. Special techniques for bringing emotional 
pressure to bear are often needed in order to make him 
at all conscious. 


In the extraverted attitude, intuition as the function of 
unconscious perception is wholly directed to external ob- 
jects. Because intuition is in the main an unconscious proc- 
ess, its nature is very difficult to grasp. The intuitive func- 
tion is represented in consciousness by an attitude of ex- 
pectancy, by vision and penetration; but only from the 
subsequent result can it be established how much of what 

General Description of the Types : 221 

was "seen" was actually in the object, and how much was 
"read into" it. Just as sensation, when it is the dominant 
function, is not a mere reactive process of no further sig- 
nificance for the object, but an activity that seizes and 
shapes its object, so intuition is not mere perception, or 
vision, but an active, creative process that puts into the 
object just as much as it takes out. Since it does this un- 
consciously, it also has an unconscious effect on the object. 
The primary function of intuition, however, is simply to 
transmit images, or perceptions of relations between things, 
which could not be transmitted by the other functions or 
only in a very roundabout way. These images have the 
value of specific insights which have a. decisive influence on 
action whenever intuition is given priority. In this case, 
psychic adaptation will be grounded almost entirely on 
intuitions. Thinking, feeling, and sensation are then largely 
repressed, sensation being the one most affected, because, 
as the conscious sense function, it offers the greatest ob- 
stacle to intuition. Sensation is a hindrance to clear, un- 
biassed, naive perception; its intrusive sensory stimuli 
direct attention to the physical surface, to the very things 
round and beyond which intuition tries to peer. But since 
extraverted intuition is directed predominantly to objects, 
it actually comes very close to sensation; indeed, the ex- 
pectant attitude to external objects is just as likely to make 
use of sensation. Hence, if intuition is to function properly, 
sensation must to a large extent be suppressed. By sensa- 
tion I mean in this instance the simple and immediate 
sense-impression understood as a clearly defined physiolog- 
ical and psychic datum. This must be expressly established 
beforehand because, if I ask an intuitive how he orients 
himself, he will speak of things that are almost indistin- 
guishable from sense-impressions. Very often he will even 
use the word "sensation/ 1 He does have sensations, of 
course, but he is not guided by them as such; he uses them 
merely as starting-points for his perceptions. He selects 
them by unconscious predilection. It is not the strongest 
sensation, in the physiological sense, that is accorded the 

222 : Psychological Types 

chief value, but any sensation whatsoever whose value is 
enhanced by the intuitive's unconscious attitude. In this 
way it may eventually come to acquire the chief value, and 
to his conscious mind it appears to be pure sensation. But 
actually it is not so. 

Just as extraverted sensation strives to reach the highest 
pitch of actuality, because this alone can give the appear- 
ance of a full life, so intuition tries to apprehend the 
widest range of possibilities, since only through envisioning 
possibilities is intuition fully satisfied. It seeks to discover 
what possibilities the objective situation holds in store; 
hence, as a subordinate function (i.e., when not in the 
position of priority), it is the auxiliary that automatically 
comes into play when no other function can find a way 
out of a hopelessly blocked situation. When it is the domi- 
nant function, every ordinary situation in life seems like 
a locked room which intuition has to open. It is constantly 
seeking fresh outlets and new possibilities in external life. 
In a very short time every existing situation becomes a 
prison for the intuitive, a chain that has to be broken. For 
a time objects appear to have an exaggerated value, if 
they should serve to bring about a solution, a deliverance, 
or lead to the discovery of a new possibility. Yet no 
sooner have they served their purpose as stepping-stones or 
bridges than they lose their value altogether and are dis- 
carded as burdensome appendages. Facts are acknowledged 
only if they open new possibilities of advancing beyond 
them and delivering the individual from their power. Nas- 
cent possibilities are compelling motives from which in- 
tuition cannot escape and to which all else must be sac- 

The Extraverted Intuitive Type 

Whenever intuition predominates, a peculiar and un- 
mistakable psychology results. Because extraverted intui- 

General Description of the Types : 223 

tion is oriented by the object, there is a marked dependence 
on external situations, but it is altogether different from 
the dependence of the sensation type. The intuitive is 
never to be found in the world of accepted reality-values, 
but he has a keen nose for anything new and in the mak- 
ing. Because he is always seeking out new possibilities, 
stable conditions suffocate him. He seizes on new objects 
or situations with great intensity, sometimes with ex- 
traordinary enthusiasm, only to abandon them cold-blood- 
edly, without any compunction and apparently without re- 
membering them, as soon as their range is known and no 
further developments can be divined. So long as a new 
possibility is in the offing, the intuitive is bound to it with 
the shackles of fate. It is as though his whole life vanished 
in the new situation. One gets the impression, which he 
himself shares, that he has always just reached a final turn- 
ing-point, and that from now on he can think and feel 
nothing else. No matter how reasonable and suitable it may 
be, and although every conceivable argument speaks for 
its stability, a day will come when nothing will deter him 
from regarding as a prison the very situation that seemed 
to promise him freedom and deliverance, and from acting 
accordingly. Neither reason nor feeling can restrain him 
or frighten him away from a new possibility, even though 
it goes against all his previous convictions. Thinking and 
feeling, the indispensable components of conviction, are 
his inferior functions, carrying no weight and hence in- 
capable of effectively withstanding the power of intuition. 
And yet these functions are the only ones that could com- 
pensate its supremacy by supplying the judgment which 
the intuitive type totally lacks. The intuitive's morality is 
governed neither by thinking nor by feeling; he has his 
own characteristic morality, which consists in a loyalty to 
his vision and in voluntary submission to its authority. 
Consideration for the welfare of others is weak. Their 
psychic well-being counts as little with him as does his 
own. He has equally little regard for their convictions and 

224 •' Psychological Types 

way of life, and on this account he is often put down as 
an immoral and unscrupulous adventurer. Since his in- 
tuition is concerned with externals and with ferreting out 
their possibilities, he readily turns to professions in which 
he can exploit these capacities to the full. Many business 
tycoons, entrepreneurs, speculators, stockbrokers, politi- 
cians, etc., belong to this type. It would seem to be more 
common among women, however, than among men. In 
women the intuitive capacity shows itself not so much in 
the professional as in the social sphere. Such women under- 
stand the art of exploiting every social occasion, they make 
.the right social connections, they seek out men with pros- 
pects only to abandon everything again for the sake of a 
new possibility. 

It goes without saying that such a type is uncommonly 
important both economically and culturally. If his inten- 
tions are good, i.e., if his attitude is not too egocentric, 
he can render exceptional service as the initiator or pro- 
moter of new enterprises. He is the natural champion of 
all minorities with a future. Because he is able, when 
oriented more to people than things, to make an intuitive 
diagnosis of their abilities and potentialities, he can also 
"make" men. His capacity to inspire courage or to kindle 
enthusiasm for anything new is unrivalled, although he 
may already have dropped it by the morrow. The stronger 
his intuition, the more his ego becomes fused with all the 
possibilities he envisions. He brings his vision to life, he 
presents it convincingly and with dramatic fire, he em- 
bodies it, so to speak. But this is not play-acting, it is a 
kind of fate. 

Naturally this attitude holds great dangers, for all too 
easily the intuitive may fritter away his life on things and 
people, spreading about him an abundance of life which 
others live and not he himself. If only he could stay put, he 
would reap the fruits of his labours; but always he must 
be running after a new possibility, quitting his newly 
planted fields while others gather in the harvest. In the 

General Description of the Types : 225 

end he goes away empty. But when the intuitive lets things 
come to such a pass, he also has his own unconscious 
against him. The unconscious of the intuitive bears some 
resemblance to that of the sensation type. Thinking and 
feeling, being largely repressed, come up with infantile, 
archaic thoughts and feelings similar to those of the coun- 
tertype. They take the form of intense projections which 
are just as absurd as his, though they seem to lack the 
"magical" character of the latter and are chiefly concerned 
with quasi-realities such as sexual suspicions, financial 
hazards, forebodings of illness, etc. The difference seems 
to be due to the repression of real sensations. These make 
themselves felt when, for instance, the intuitive suddenly 
finds himself entangled with a highly unsuitable woman — 
or, in the case of a woman, with an unsuitable man — 
because these persons have stirred up the archaic sensations. 
This leads to an unconscious, compulsive tie which bodes 
nobody any good. Cases of this kind are themselves symp- 
tomatic of compulsion, to which the intuitive is as prone 
as the sensation type. He claims a similar freedom and 
exemption from restraint, submitting his decisions to no 
rational judgment and relying entirely on his nose for the 
possibilities that chance throws in his way. He exempts 
himself from the restrictions of reason only to fall victim 
to neurotic compulsions in the form of over-subtle rati- 
ocinations, hair-splitting dialectics, and a compulsive tie to 
the sensation aroused by the object. His conscious attitude 
towards both sensation and object is one of ruthless superi- 
ority. Not that he means to be ruthless or superior — he 
simply does not see the object that everyone else sees and 
rides roughshod over it, just as the sensation type has no 
eyes for its soul. But sooner or later the object takes 
revenge in the form of compulsive hypochondriacal ideas, 
phobias, and every imaginable kind of absurd bodily sensa- 

226 : Psychological Types 

Summary of the Extraverted Irrational Types 

I call the two preceding types irrational for the reasons 
previously discussed, namely that whatever they do or do 
not do is based not on rational judgment but on the sheer 
intensity of perception. Their perception is directed simply 
and solely to events as they happen, no selection being made 
by judgment. In this respect they have a decided advantage 
over the two judging types. Objective events both conform 
to law and are accidental. In so far as they conform to law, 
they are accessible to reason; in so far as they are acci- 
dental, they are not. Conversely, we might also say that an 
event conforms to law when it presents an aspect accessible 
to reason, and that when it presents an aspect for which 
we can find no law we call it accidental. The postulate of 
universal lawfulness is a postulate of reason alone, but in 
no sense is it a postulate of our perceptive functions. Since 
these are in no way based on the principle of reason and 
its postulates, they are by their very nature irrational. That 
is why I call the perception types "irrational" by nature. 
But merely because they subordinate judgment to percep- 
tion, it would be quite wrong to regard them as "unreason- 
able." It would be truer to say that they are in the highest 
degree empirical. They base themselves exclusively on ex- 
perience — so exclusively that, as a rule, their judgment 
cannot keep pace with their experience. But the judging 
functions are none the less present, although they eke out 
a largely unconscious existence. Since the unconscious, in 
spite of its separation from the conscious subject, is always 
appearing on the scene, we notice in the actual life of the 
irrational types striking judgments and acts of choice, but 
they take the form of apparent sophistries, cold-hearted 
criticisms, and a seemingly calculating selection of persons 
and situations. These traits have a rather infantile and even 
primitive character; both types can on occasion be aston- 
ishingly naive, as well as ruthless, brusque, and violent. 

General Description of the Types : 227 

To the rational types the real character of these people 
might well appear rationalistic and calculating in the worst 
sense. But this judgment would be valid only for their 
unconscious, and therefore quite incorrect for their con- 
scious psychology, which is entirely oriented by perception, 
and because of its irrational nature is quite unintelligible 
to any rational judgment. To the rational mind it might 
even seem that such a hodge-podge of accidentals hardly 
deserves the name "psychology" at all. The irrational 
type ripostes with an equally contemptuous opinion of his 
opposite number: he sees him as something only half 
alive, whose sole aim is to fasten the fetters of reason on 
everything living and strangle it with judgments. These 
are crass extremes, but they nevertheless occur. 

From the standpoint of the rational type, the other might 
easily be represented as an inferior kind of rationalist — 
when, that is to say, he is judged by what happens to him. 
For what happens to him is not accidental — here he is the 
master — instead, the accidents that befall him take the 
form of rational judgments and rational intentions, and 
these are the things he stumbles over. To the rational mind 
this is something almost unthinkable, but its unthinkable- 
ness merely equals the astonishment of the irrational type 
when he comes up against someone who puts rational ideas 
above actual and living happenings. Such a thing seems 
to him scarcely credible. As a rule it is quite hopeless to 
discuss these things with him as questions of principle, for 
all rational communication is just as alien and repellent 
to him as it would be unthinkable for the rationalist to 
enter into a contract without mutual consultation and ob- 

This brings me to the problem of the psychic relation- 
ship between the two types. Following the terminology of 
the French school of hypnotists, psychic relationship is 
known in modern psychiatry as "rapport." Rapport con- 
sists essentially in a feeling of agreement in spite of 
acknowledged differences. Indeed, the recognition of exist- 

228 : Psychological Types 

ing differences, if it be mutual, is itself a rapport, a feeling 
of agreement. If in a given case we make this feeling con- 
scious to a higher degree than usual, we discover that it 
is not just a feeling whose nature cannot be analyzed fur- 
ther, but at the same time an insight or a content of cogni- 
tion which presents the point of agreement in conceptual 
form. This rational presentation is valid only for the ra- 
tional types, but not for the irrational, whose rapport is 
based not on judgment but on the parallelism of living 
events. His feeling of agreement comes from the common 
perception of a sensation or intuition. The rational type 
would say that rapport with the irrational depends purely 
on chance. If, by some accident, the objective situations are 
exactly in tune, something like a human relationship takes 
place, but nobody can tell how valid it is or how long it 
will last. To the rational type it is often a painful thought 
that the relationship will last just as long as external cir- 
cumstances and chance provide a common interest. This 
does not seem to him particularly human, whereas it is 
precisely in this that the irrational type sees a human 
situation of particular beauty. The result is that each regards 
the other as a man destitute of relationships, who cannot 
be relied upon, and with whom one can never get on decent 
terms. This unhappy outcome, however, is reached only 
when one makes a conscious effort to assess the nature of 
one's relationships with others. But since this kind of psy- 
chological conscientiousness is not very common, it fre- 
quently happens that despite an absolute difference of 
standpoint a rapport nevertheless comes about, and in the 
following way: one party, by unspoken projection, assumes 
that the other is, in all essentials, of the same opinion as 
himself, while the other divines or senses an objective com- 
munity of interest, of which, however, the former has no 
conscious inkling and whose existence he would at once 
dispute, just as it would never occur to the other that his 
relationship should be based on a common point of view. 
A rapport of this kind is by far the most frequent; it rests 

General Description of the Types : 229 

on mutual projection, which later becomes the source of 
many misunderstandings. 

Psychic relationship, in the extraverted attitude, is always 
governed by objective factors and external determinants. 
What a man is within himself is never of any decisive 
significance. For our present-day culture the extraverted 
attitude to the problem of human relationships is the prin- 
ciple that counts; naturally the introverted principle occurs 
too, but it is still the exception and has to appeal to the 
tolerance of the age. 

3. The Introverted Type 
a) The General Attitude of Consciousness 

As I have already explained in the previous section, the 
introvert is distinguished from- the extravert by the fact 
that he does not, like the latter, orient himself by the 
object and by objective data, but by subjective factors. 1 
also mentioned 7 that the introvert interposes a subjective 
view between the perception of the object and his own 
action, which prevents the action from assuming a character 
that fits the objective situation. Naturally this is a special 
instance, mentioned by way of example and intended to 
serve only as a simple illustration. We must now attempt 
a formulation on a broader basis. 

Although the introverted consciousness is naturally aware 
of external conditions, it selects the subjective determinants 
as the decisive ones. It is therefore oriented by the factor 
in perception and cognition which responds to the sense 
stimulus in accordance with the individual's subjective dis- 
position. For example, two people see the same object, but 
they never sec it in such a way that the images they receive 
are absolutely identical. Quite apart from the variable acute- 

7 Supra, p. 182. 

230 : Psychological Types 

ness of the sense organs and the personal equation, there 
often exists a radical difference, both in kind and in degree, 
in the psychic assimilation of the perceptual image. Whereas 
the extravert continually appeals to what comes to Jiim 
from the object, the introvert relies principally on what 
the sense impression constellates in the subject. The differ- 
ence in the case of a single apperception may, of course, 
be very delicate, but in the total psychic economy it makes 
itself felt in the highest degree, particularly in the effect 
in has on the ego. If I may anticipate, I consider the view- 
point which inclines, with Weininger, to describe the intro- 
verted attitude as philautic, autoerotic, egocentric, sub- 
jectivistic, egotistic, etc., to be misleading in principle and 
thoroughly depreciatory. It reflects the normal bias of the 
extraverted attitude in regard to the nature of the introvert. 
We must not forget — although the extravert is only too 
prone to do so — that perception and cognition are not 
purely objective, but are also subjectively conditioned. The 
world exists not merely in itself, but also as it appears to me. 
Indeed, at bottom, we have absolutely no criterion that 
could help us to form a judgment of a world which was 
unassimilable by the subject. If we were to ignore the 
subjective factor, it would be a complete denial of the 
great doubt as to the possibility of absolute cognition. And 
this would mean a relapse into the stale and hollow positiv- 
ism that marred the turn of the century — an attitude of in- 
tellectual arrogance accompanied by crudeness of feeling, 
a violation of life as stupid as it is presumptuous. By over- 
valuing our capacity for objective cognition we repress the 
importance of the subjective factor, which simply means 
a denial of the subject. But what is the subject? The subject 
is man himself — we are the subject. Only a sick mind could 
forget that cognition must have a subject, and that there 
is no knowledge whatever and therefore no world at all 
unless "I know" has been said, though with this statement 
one has already expressed the subjective limitation of all 

General Description of the Types : 231 

This applies to all the psychic functions: they have a 
subject which is just as indispensable as the object. It is 
characteristic of our present extraverted sense of values 
that the word "subjective" usually sounds like a reproof; at 
all events the epithet "merely subjective" is brandished 
like a weapon over the head of anyone who is not bound- 
lessly convinced of the absolute superiority of the object. 
We must therefore be quite clear as to what "subjective" 
means in this inquiry. By the subjective factor I understand 
that psychological action or reaction which merges with 
the effect produced by the object and so gives rise to a 
new psychic datum. In so far as the subjective factor has, 
from the earliest times and among all peoples, remained in 
large measure constant, elementary perceptions and cog- 
nitions being almost universally the same, it is a reality that 
is just as firmly established as the external object. If this 
were not so, any sort of permanent and essentially un- 
changing reality would be simply inconceivable, and any 
understanding of the past would be impossible. In this 
sense, therefore, the subjective factor is as ineluctable a 
datum as the extent of the sea and the radius of the earth. 
By the same token, the subjective factor has all the value 
of a co-determinant of the world we live in, a factor that 
can on no account be left out of our calculations. It is 
another universal law, and whoever bases himself on it 
has a foundation as secure, as permanent, and as valid as 
the man who relies on the object. But just as the object and 
objective data do not remain permanently the same, being 
perishable and subject to chance, so too the subjective 
factor is subject to variation and individual hazards. For 
this reason its value is also merely relative. That is to say, 
the excessive development of the introverted standpoint 
does not lead to a better and sounder use of the subjective 
factor, but rather to an artificial subjectivizing of conscious- 
ness which can hardly escape the reproach "merely sub- 
jective." This is then counterbalanced by a de-subjectiviza- 
tion which takes the form of an exaggerated extraverted 

2J2 : Psychological Types 

attitude, an attitude aptly described by Weininger as 
"misautic." But since the introverted attitude is based on 
the ever-present, extremely real, and absolutely indispensa- 
ble fact of psychic adaptation, expressions like "philautic," 
"egocentric," and so on are out of place and objectionable 
because they arouse the prejudice that it is always a ques- 
tion of the beloved ego. Nothing could be more mistaken 
than such an assumption. Yet one is continually meeting 
it in the judgments of the extravert on the introvert. Not, 
of course, that I wish to ascribe this error to individual 
extraverts; it is rather to be put down to the generally 
accepted extraverted view which is by no means restricted 
to the extraverted type, for it has just as many representa- 
tives among introverts, very much to their own detriment. 
The reproach of being untrue to their own nature can justly 
be levelled at the latter, whereas this at least cannot be 
held against the former. 

The introverted attitude is normally oriented by the 
psychic structure, which is in principle hereditary and is 
inborn in the subject. This must not be assumed, however, 
to be simply identical with the subject's ego, as is implied 
by the above designations of Weininger; it is rather the 
psychic structure of the subject prior to any ego-develop- 
ment. The really fundamental subject, the self, is far more 
comprehensive than the ego, since the former includes 
the unconscious whereas the latter is essentially the focal 
point of consciousness. Were the ego identical with the 
self, it would be inconceivable how we could sometimes 
see ourselves in dreams in quite different forms and with 
entirely different meanings. But it is a characteristic pecu- 
liarity of the introvert, which is as much in keeping with 
his own inclination as with the general bias, to confuse 
his ego with the self, and to exalt it as the subject of the 
psychic process, thus bringing about the aforementioned 
subjectivization of consciousness which alienates him from 
the object. 

The psychic structure is the same as what Semon calls 

General Description of the Types : 233 

"mneme" 8 and what I call the "collective unconscious." 
The individual self is a portion or segment or representa- 
tive of something present in all living creatures, an exponent 
of the specific mode of psychological behaviour, which 
varies from species to species and is inborn in each of its 
members. The inborn mode of acting has long been known 
as instinct, and for the inborn mode of psychic apprehen- 
sion I have proposed the term archetype. 9 I may assume 
that what is understood by instinct is familiar to everyone. 
It is another matter with the archetype. What I understand 
by it is identical with the "primordial image," a term bor- 
rowed from Jacob Burckhardt, 10 and I describe it as such 
in the Definitions that conclude this book. I must here 
refer the reader to the definition "Image." 11 

The archetype is a symbolic formula which always begins 
to function when there are no conscious ideas present, or 
when conscious ideas are inhibited for internal or external 
reasons. The contents of the collective unconscious are 
represented in consciousness in the form of pronounced 
preferences and definite ways of looking at things. These 
subjective tendencies and views are generally regarded by 
the individual as being determined by the object — incor- 
rectly, since they have their source in the unconscious 
structure of the psyche and are merely released by the 
effect of the object. They are stronger than the object's 
influence, their psychic value is higher, so that they super- 
impose themselves on all impressions. Thus, just as it seems 
incomprehensible to the introvert that the object should 
always be the decisive factor, it remains an enigma to the 
extravert how a subjective standpoint can be superior to 

8 Richard Scmon, Die Mneme als erhaltendes Prinzip im Wechsel 
des organischen Geschehens (Leipzig, 1904); translated by L. Simon, 
The Mneme (London, 1921). 
11 "Instinct and the Unconscious," supra, pp. 47-58. 

10 Cf. Symbols of Transformation {Collected Works, Vol. 5), par. 
45. n. 45- 

11 These references arc to the volume Psychological Types (Collected 
Works, Vol. 6), Ch. xi. 

234 ' Psychological Types 

the objective situation. He inevitably comes to the con- 
clusion that the introvert is either a conceited egoist or 
crack-brained bigot. Today he would be suspected of har- 
bouring an unconscious power complex. The introvert cer- 
tainly lays himself open to these suspicions, for his positive, 
highly generalizing manner of expression, which appears 
to rule out every other opinion from the start, lends counte- 
nance to all the extraverfs prejudices. Moreover the in- 
flexibility of his subjective judgment, setting itself above all 
objective data, is sufficient in itself to create the impression 
of marked egocentricity. Faced with this prejudice the 
introvert is usually at a loss for the right argument, for 
he is quite unaware of the unconscious but generally quite 
valid assumptions on which his subjective judgment and 
his subjective perceptions are based. In the fashion of the 
times he looks outside for an answer, instead of seeking 
it behind his own consciousness. Should he become neu- 
rotic, it is the sign of an almost complete identity of the 
ego with the self; the importance of the self is reduced to 
nil, while the ego is inflated beyond measure. The whole 
world-creating force of the subjective factor becomes 
concentrated in the ego, producing a boundless power- 
complex and a fatuous egocentricity. Every psychology 
which reduces the essence of man to the unconscious 
power drive springs from this kind of disposition. Many 
of Nietzsche's lapses in taste, for example, are due to this 
subjectivization of consciousness. 

b) The Attitude of the Unconscious 

The predominance of the subjective factor in conscious- 
ness naturally involves a devaluation of the object. The 
object is not given the importance that belongs to it by 
right. Just as it plays too great a role in the extraverted 
attitude, it has too little meaning for the introvert. To the 
extent that his consciousness is subjectivized and excessive 

General Description of the Types : 235 

importance attached to the ego, the object is put in a posi- 
tion which in the end becomes untenable. The object is a 
factor whose power cannot be denied, whereas the ego is 
a very limited and fragile thing. It would be a very different 
matter if the self opposed the object. Self and world are 
commensurable factors; hence a normal introverted attitude 
is as justifiable and valid as a normal cxtravertcd attitude. 
But if the ego has usurped the claims of the subject, this 
naturally produces, by way of compensation, an uncon- 
scious reinforcement of the influence of the object. In spite 
of positively convulsive efforts to ensure the superiority of 
the ego, the object comes to exert an overwhelming influ- 
ence, which is all the more invincible because it seizes on 
the individual unawares and forcibly obtrudes itself on his 
consciousness. As a result of the ego's unadapted relation 
to the object — for a desire to dominate it is not adaptation 
— a compensatory relation arises in the unconscious which 
makes itself felt as an absolute and irrepressible tie to the 
object. The more the ego struggles to preserve its inde- 
pendence, freedom from obligation, and superiority, the 
more it becomes enslaved to the objective data. The individ- 
ual's freedom of mind is fettered by the ignominy of his 
financial dependence, his freedom of action trembles in 
the face of public opinion, his moral superiority collapses 
in a morass of inferior relationships, and his desire to 
dominate ends in a pitiful craving to be loved. It is now 
the unconscious that takes care of the relation to the object, 
and it does so in a way that is calculated to bring the 
illusion of power and the fantasy of superiority to utter 
ruin. The object assumes terrifying proportions in spite of 
the conscious attempt to degrade it. In consequence, the 
ego's efforts to detach itself from the object and get it 
under control become all the more violent. In the end it 
surrounds itself with a regular system of defences (aptly 
described by Adler) for the purpose of preserving at least 
the illusion of superiority. The introvert's alienation from 
the object is now complete; he wears himself out with 

2j6 ; Psychological Types 

defence measures on the one hand, while on the other he 
makes fruitless attempts to impose his will on the object 
and assert himself. These efforts are constantly being frus- 
trated by the overwhelming impressions received from 
the object. It continually imposes itself on him against his 
will, it arouses in him the most disagreeable and intractable 
affects and persecutes him at every step. A tremendous 
inner struggle is needed all the time in order to "keep 
going." The typical form his neurosis takes is psychasthenia, 
a malady characterized on the one hand by extreme sensi- 
tivity and on the other by great proneness to exhaustion 
and chronic fatigue. 

An analysis of the personal unconscious reveals a mass 
of power fantasies coupled with fear of objects which he 
himself has forcibly activated, and of which he is often 
enough the victim. His fear of objects develops into a 
peculiar kind of cowardliness; he shrinks from making him- 
self or his opinions felt, fearing that this will only increase 
the object's power. He is terrified of strong affects in others, 
and is hardly ever free from the dread of falling under 
hostile influences. Objects possess puissant and terrifying 
qualities for him — qualities he cannot consciously discern 
in them, but which he imagines he sees through his uncon- 
scious perception. As his relation to the object is very 
largely repressed, it takes place via the unconscious, where 
it becomes charged with the lattefs qualities. These qualities 
are mostly infantile and archaic, so that the relation to the 
object becomes primitive too, and the object seems endowed 
with magical powers. Anything strange and new arouses 
fear and mistrust, as though concealing unknown perils; 
heirlooms and suchlike are attached to his soul as by 
invisible threads; any change is upsetting, if not positively 
dangerous, as it seems to denote a magical animation of 
the object. His ideal is a lonely island where nothing moves 
except what he permits to move. Vischer's novel, Auch 
Eincv, affords deep insight into this side of the introvert's 
psychology, and also into the underlying symbolism of the 

General Description of the Types : 237 

collective unconscious. But this latter question I must 
leave to one side, since it is not specific to a description of 
types but is a general phenomenon. 

c) The Peculiarities of the Basic Psychological Functions 
in the Introverted Attitude 


In the section on extraverted thinking I gave a brief 
description of introverted thinking (supra, pp. 193-95) 
and must refer to it again here. Introverted thinking is 
primarily oriented by the subjective factor. At the very 
least the subjective factor expresses itself as a feeling of 
guidance which ultimately determines judgment. Sometimes 
it appears as a more or less complete image which serves 
as a criterion. But whether introverted thinking is con- 
cerned with concrete or with abstract objects, always at 
the decisive points it is oriented by subjective data. It does 
not lead from concrete experience back again to the object, 
but always to the subjective content. External facts are not 
the aim and origin of this thinking, though the introvert 
would often like to make his thinking appear so. It begins 
with the subject and leads back to the subject, far though 
it may range into the realm of actual reality. With regard to 
the establishment of new facts it is only indirectly of value, 
since new views rather than knowledge of new facts are 
its main concern. It formulates questions and creates the- 
ories, it opens up new prospects and insights, but with 
regard to facts its attitude is one of reserve. They are all 
very well as illustrative examples, but they must not be 
allowed to predominate. Facts are collected as evidence for 
a theory, never for their own sake. If ever this happens, it 
is merely a concession to the extraverted style. Facts are 
of secondary importance for this kind of thinking; what 
seems to it of paramount importance is the development 

2j8 : Psychological Types 

and presentation of the subjective idea, of the initial sym- 
bolic image hovering darkly before the mind's eye. Its aim 
is never an intellectual reconstruction of the concrete fact, 
but a shaping of that dark image into a luminous idea. It 
wants to reach reality to see how the external fact will fit 
into and fill the framework of the idea, and the creative 
power of this thinking shows itself when it actually creates 
an idea which, though not inherent in the concrete fact, is 
yet the most suitable abstract expression of it. Its task is 
completed when the idea it has fashioned seems to emerge 
so inevitably from the external facts that they actually 
prove its validity. 

But no more than extraverted thinking can wrest a 
sound empirical concept from concrete facts or create new 
ones can introverted thinking translate the initial image into 
an idea adequately adapted to the facts. For, as in the 
former case the purely empirical accumulation of facts 
paralyzes thought and smothers their meaning, so in the 
latter case introverted thinking shows a dangerous tendency 
to force the facts into the shape of its image, or to ignore 
them altogether in order to give fantasy free play. In that 
event it will be impossible for the finished product — the 
idea — to repudiate its derivation from the dim archaic 
image. It will have a mythological streak which one is apt 
to interpret as "originality" or, in more pronounced cases, 
as mere whimsicality, since its archaic character is not 
immediately apparent to specialists unfamiliar with myth- 
ological motifs. The subjective power of conviction ex- 
erted by an idea of this kind is usually very great, and 
it is all the greater the less it comes into contact with 
external facts. Although it may seem to the originator of 
the idea that his meagre store of facts is the actual source 
of its truth and validity, in reality this is not so, for the 
idea derives its convincing power from the unconscious 
archetype, which, as such, is eternally valid and true. But 
this truth is so universal and so symbolic that it must first 
be assimilated to the recognized and recognizable knowl- 

General Description of the Types : 239 

edge of the time before it can become a practical truth 
of any value for life. What would causality be, for instance, 
if it could nowhere be recognized in practical causes and 
practical effects? 

This kind of thinking easily gets lost in the immense 
truth of the subjective factor. It creates theories for their 
own sake, apparently with an eye to real or at least possible 
facts, but always with a distinct tendency to slip over from 
the world of ideas into mere imagery. Accordingly, visions 
of numerous possibilties appear on the scene, but none of 
them ever becomes a reality until finally images are pro- 
duced which no longer express anything externally real, 
being mere symbols of the ineffable and unknowable. It is 
now merely a mystical thinking and quite as unfruitful 
as thinking that remains bound to objective data. Whereas 
the latter sinks to the level of a mere representation of facts, 
the former evaporates into a representation of the irrepre- 
sentable, far beyond anything that could be expressed in an 
image. The representation of facts has an incontestable 
truth because the subjective factor is excluded and the facts 
speak for themselves. Similarly, the representation of the 
irrepresentable has an immediate, subjective power of con- 
viction because it demonstrates its own existence. The one 
says "Est, ergo est"; the other says "Cogito, ergo cogito." 
Introverted thinking carried to extremes arrives at the evi- 
dence of its own subjective existence, and extraverted think- 
ing at the evidence of its complete identity with the objective 
fact. Just as the latter abnegates itself by evaporating into 
the object, the former empties itself of each and every 
content and has to be satisfied with merely existing. In 
both cases the further development of life is crowded out 
of the thinking function into the domain of the other 
psychic functions, which till then had existed in a state of 
relative unconsciousness. The extraordinary impoverish- 
ment of introverted thinking is compensated by a wealth 
of unconscious facts. The more consciousness is impelled 
by the thinking function to confine itself within the smallest 

240 : Psychological Types 

and emptiest circle — which seems, however, to contain all 
the riches of the gods — the more the unconscious fantasies 
will be enriched by a multitude of archaic contents, a 
veritable "pandaemonium" of irrational and magical figures, 
whose physiognomy will accord with the nature of the 
function that will supersede the thinking function as the 
vehicle of life. If it should be the intuitive function, then 
the "other side" will be viewed through the eyes of a Kubin 
or a Meyrink. 12 If it is the feeling function, then quite 
unheard-of and fantastic feeling relationships will be 
formed, coupled with contradictory and unintelligible value 
judgments. If it is the sensation function, the senses will 
nose up something new and never experienced before, in 
and outside the body. Closer examination of these per- 
mutations will easily demonstrate a recrudescence of prim- 
itive psychology with all its characteristic features. Nat- 
urally, such experiences are not merely primitive, they are 
also symbolic; in fact, the more primordial and aboriginal 
they are, the more they represent a future truth. For every- 
thing old in the unconscious hints at something coming. 
Under ordinary circumstances, not even the attempt to 
get to the "other side" will be successful — and still less 
the redeeming journey through the unconscious. The pas- 
sage across is usually blocked by conscious resistance to 
any subjection of the ego to the realities of the uncon- 
scious and their determining power. It is a state of dissocia- 
tion, in other words a neurosis characterized by inner 
debility and increasing cerebral exhaustion — the symptoms 
of psychasthenia. 

The Introverted Thinking Type 

Just as we might take Darwin as an example of the 
normal extraverted thinking type, the normal introverted 

12 Alfred Kubin, The Other Side, translated by Denver Lindley (New 
York, 1968), and Gustav Meyrink, Das grime Gesicht (Leipzig, 

General Description of the Types : 241 

thinking type could be represented by Kant. The one speaks 
with facts, the other relies on the subjective factor. Darwin 
ranges over the wide field of objective reality, Kant restricts 
himself to a critique of knowledge. Cuvicr and Nietzsche 
would form an even sharper contrast. 

The introverted thinking type is characterized by the 
primacy of the kind of thinking I have just described. Like 
his extraverted counterpart, he is strongly influenced by 
ideas, though his ideas have their origin not in objective 
data but in his subjective foundation. He will follow his 
ideas like the extravert, but in the reverse direction: in- 
wards and not outwards. Intensity is his aim, not extensity. 
In these fundamental respects he differs quite unmistakably 
from his extraverted counterpart. What distinguishes the 
other, namely, his intense relation to objects, is almost 
completely lacking in him as in every introverted type. If 
the object is a person, this person has a distinct feeling 
that he matters only in a negative way; in milder cases he 
is merely conscious of being de trop, but with a more ex- 
treme type he feels himself warded off as something def- 
initely disturbing. This negative relation to the object, 
ranging from indifference to aversion, characterizes every 
introvert and makes a description of the type exceedingly 
difficult. Everything about him tends to disappear and get 
concealed. His judgment appears cold, inflexible, arbitrary, 
and ruthless, because it relates far less to the object than 
to the subject. One can feel nothing in it that might possibly 
confer a higher value on the object; it always bypasses the 
object and leaves one with a feeling of the subject's superi- 
ority. He may be polite, amiable, and kind, but one is 
constantly aware of a certain uneasiness betraying an 
ulterior motive — the disarming of an opponent, who must 
at all costs be pacified and placated lest he prove himself 
a nuisance. In no sense, of course, is he an opponent, but 
if he is at all sensitive he will feel himself repulsed, and 
even belittled. 

Invariably the object has to submit to a certain amount 
of neglect, and in pathological cases it is even surrounded 

242 : Psychological Types 

with quite unnecessary precautionary measures. Thus 
this type tends to vanish behind a cloud of misunderstand- 
ing, which gets all the thicker the more he attempts to 
assume, by way of compensation and with the help of his 
inferior functions, an air of urbanity which contrasts glar- 
ingly with his real nature. Although he will shrink from no 
danger in building up his world of ideas, and never shrinks 
from thinking a thought because it might prove to be 
dangerous, subversive, heretical, or wounding to other peo- 
ple's feelings, he is none the less beset by the greatest 
anxiety if ever he has to make it an objective reality, That 
goes against the grain. And when he does put his ideas into 
the world, he never introduces them like a mother solicitous 
for her children, but simply dumps them there and gets 
extremely annoyed if they fail to thrive on their own ac- 
count. His amazing unpracticalness and horror of publicity 
in any form have a hand in this, If in his eyes his product 
appears correct and true, then it must be so in practice, and 
others have got to bow to its truth. Hardly ever will he 
go out of his way to win anyone's appreciation of it, espe- 
cially anyone of influence. And if ever he brings himself 
to do so, he generally sets about it so clumsily that it has 
just the opposite of the effect intended. He usually has bad 
experiences with rivals in his own field because he never 
understands how to curry their favour; as a rule he only 
succeeds in showing them how entirely superfluous they 
are to him. In the pursuit of his ideas he is generally stub- 
born, headstrong, and quite unamenable to influence. His 
suggestibility to personal influences is in strange contrast to 
this. He has only to be convinced of a person's seeming 
innocuousness to lay himself open to the most undesirable 
elements. They seize hold of him from the unconscious. He 
lets himself be brutalized and exploited in the most igno- 
minious way if only he can be left in peace to pursue his 
ideas. He simply does not see when he is being plundered be- 
hind his back and wronged in practice, for to him the rela- 
tion to people and things is secondary and the objective eval- 
uation of his product is something he remains unconscious 

General Description of the Types : 243 

of. Because he thinks out his problems to the limit, he com- 
plicates them and constantly gets entangled in his own 
scruples and misgivings. However clear to him the inner 
structure of his thoughts may be, he is not in the least 
clear where or how they link up with the world of reality. 
Only with the greatest difficulty will he bring himself to 
admit that what is clear to him may not be equally clear to 
everyone. His style is cluttered with all sorts of adjuncts, 
accessories, qualifications, retractions, saving clauses, 
doubts, etc., which all come from his scrupulosity. His work 
goes slowly and with difficulty. 

In his personal relations he is taciturn or else throws 
himself on people who cannot understand him, and for him 
this is one more proof of the abysmal stupidity of man. If 
for once he is understood, he easily succumbs to credulous 
overestimation of his prowess. Ambitious women have 
only to know how to take advantage of his cluelessncss in 
practical matters to make an easy prey of him; or he may 
develop into a misanthropic bachelor with a childlike heart. 
Often he is gauche in his behaviour, painfully anxious to 
escape notice, or else remarkably unconcerned and child- 
ishly naive. In his own special field of work he provokes 
the most violent opposition, which he has no notion how 
to deal with, unless he happens to be seduced by his primi- 
tive affects into acrimonious and fruitless polemics. Casual 
acquaintances think him inconsiderate and domineering. 
But the better one knows him, the more favourable one's 
judgment becomes, and his closest friends value his intimacy 
very highly. To outsiders he seems prickly, unapproach- 
able, and arrogant, and sometimes soured as a result of his 
anti-social prejudices. As a personal teacher he has little 
influence, since the mentality of his students is strange to 
him. Besides, teaching has, at bottom, no interest for him 
unless it happens to provide him with a theoretical problem. 
He is a poor teacher, because all the time he is teaching 
his thought is occupied with the material itself and not with 
its presentation. 

With the intensification of his type, his convictions be- 

244 •' Psychological Types 

come all the more rigid and unbending. Outside influences 
are shut off; as a person, too, he becomes more unsym- 
pathetic to his wider circle of acquaintances, and therefore 
more dependent on his intimates. His tone becomes per- 
sonal and surly, and though his ideas may gain in profundity 
they can no longer be adequately expressed in the material 
at hand. To compensate for this, he falls back on emo- 
tionality and touchiness. The outside influences he has 
brusquely fended off attack him from within, from the 
unconscious, and in his efforts to defend himself he attacks 
things that to outsiders seem utterly unimportant. Because 
of the subjectivization of consciousness resulting from his 
lack of relationship to the object, what secretly concerns 
his own person now seems to him of extreme importance. 
He begins to confuse his subjective truth with his own 
personality. Although he will not try to press his convictions 
on anyone personally, he will burst out with vicious, per- 
sonal retorts against every criticism, however just. Thus his 
isolation gradually increases. His 'originally fertilizing ideas 
become destructive, poisoned by the sediment of bitterness. 
His struggle against the influences emanating from the un- 
conscious increases with his external isolation, until finally 
they begin to cripple him. He thinks his withdrawal into 
ever-increasing solitude will protect him from the uncon- 
scious influences, but as a rule it only plunges him deeper 
into the conflict that is destroying him from within. 

The thinking of the introverted type is positive and syn- 
thetic in developing ideas which approximate more and 
more to the eternal validity of the primordial images. But 
as their connection with objective experience becomes more 
?.c\d more tenuous, they take on a mythological colouring 
and no longer hold true for the contemporary situation. 
Hence his thinking is of value for his contemporaries only 
so long as it is manifestly and intelligibly related to the 
known facts of the time. Once it has become mythological, 
it ceases to be relevant and runs on in itself. The counter- 
balancing functions of feeling, intuition, and sensation 

General Description of the Types : 245 

are comparatively unconscious and inferior, and therefore 
have a primitive extraverted character that accounts for 
all the troublesome influences from outside to which the 
introverted thinker is prone. The various protective devices 
and psychological minefields which such people surround 
themselves with are known to everyone, and I can spare 
myself a description of them. They all serve as a defence 
against "magical" influences — and among them is a vague 
fear of the feminine sex. 


Introverted feeling is determined principally by the sub- 
jective factor. It differs quite as essentially from extraverted 
feeling as introverted from extraverted thinking. It is ex- 
tremely difficult to give an intellectual account of the intro- 
verted feeling process, or even an approximate description 
of it, although the peculiar nature of this kind of feeling* 
is very noticeable once one has become aware of it. Since 
it is conditioned subjectively and is only secondarily con- 
cerned with the object, it seldom appears on the surface 
and is generally misunderstood. It is a feeling which seems 
to devalue the object, and it therefore manifests itself for 
the most part negatively. The existence of positive feeling 
can be inferred only indirectly. Its aim is not to adjust 
itself to the object, but to subordinate it in an unconscious 
effort to realize the underlying images. It is continually 
seeking an image which has no existence in reality, but 
which it has seen in a kind of vision. It glides unheedingly 
over all objects that do not fit in with its aim. It strives 
after inner intensity, for which the object serves at most as 
a stimulus. The depth of this feeling can only be guessed 
— it can never be clearly grasped. It makes people silent 
and difficult of access; it shrinks back like a violet from 
the brute nature of the object in order to fill the depths of 
the subject. It comes out with negative judgments or as- 

246 : Psychological Types 

sumes an air of profound indifference as a means of de- 

The primordial images are, of course, just as much ideas 
as feelings. Fundamental ideas, ideas like God, freedom, 
and immortality, are just as much feeling-values as they 
are significant ideas. Everything, therefore, that we have 
said about introverted thinking is equally true of introverted 
feeling, only here everything is felt while there it was 
thought. But the very fact that thoughts can generally be 
expressed more intelligibly than feelings demands a more 
than ordinary descriptive or artistic ability before the real 
wealth of this feeling can be even approximately presented 
or communicated to the world. If subjective thinking can 
be understood only with difficulty because of its unrelated- 
ness, this is true in even higher degree of subjective feeling. 
In order to communicate with others, it has to find an ex- 
ternal form not only acceptable to itself, but capable also 
of arousing a parallel feeling in them. Thanks to the rela- 
tively great inner (as well as outer) uniformity of human 
beings, it is actually possible to do this, though the form 
acceptable to feeling is extraordinarily difficult to find so 
long as it is still mainly oriented to the fathomless store 
of primordial images. If, however, feeling is falsified by an 
egocentric attitude, it at once becomes unsympathetic, be- 
cause it is then concerned mainly with the ego. It inevitably 
creates the impression of sentimental self-love, of trying 
to make itself interesting, and even of morbid self-admira- 
tion. Just as the subjectivized consciousness of the in- 
troverted thinker, striving after abstraction to the nth 
degree, only succeeds in intensifying a thought-process 
that is in itself empty, the intensification of egocentric 
feeling only leads to inane transports of feeling for their 
own sake. This is the mystical, ecstatic stage which opens 
the way for the extraverted functions that feeling has 
repressed. Just as introverted thinking is counterbalanced 
by a primitive feeling, to which objects attach themselves 
with magical force, introverted feeling is counterbalanced 

General Description of the Types : 247 

by a primitive thinking, whose concretism and slavery to 
facts surpass all bounds. Feeling progressively emancipates 
itself from the object and creates for itself a freedom of 
action and conscience that is purely subjective, and may 
even renounce all traditional values. But so much the more 
does unconscious thinking fall a victim to the power of 
objective reality. 

The Introverted Feeling Type 

It is principally among women that I have found the 
predominance of introverted feeling. "Still waters run deep" 
is very true of such women. They are mostly silent, in- 
accessible, hard to understand; often they hide behind a 
childish or banal mask, and their temperament is inclined 
to melancholy. They neither shine nor reveal themselves. 
As they are mainly guided by their subjective feelings, 
their true motives generally remain hidden. Their outward 
demeanour is harmonious, inconspicuous, giving an im- 
pression of pleasing repose, or of sympathetic response, 
with no desire to affect others, to impress, influence, or 
change them in any way. If this outward aspect is more 
pronounced, it arouses a suspicion of indifference and cold- 
ness, which may actually turn into a disregard for the com- 
fort and well-being of others. One is distinctly aware then 
of the movement of feeling away from the object. With 
the normal type, however, this happens only when the 
influence of the object is too strong. The feeling of har- 
mony, therefore, lasts only so long as the object goes its 
own moderate way and makes no attempt to cross the 
other's path. There is little effort to respond to the real 
emotions of the other person; they are more often damped 
down and rebuffed, or cooled off by a negative value judg- 
ment. Although there is a constant readiness for peaceful 
and harmonious co-existence, strangers are shown no touch 
of amiability, no gleam of responsive warmth, but are met 

248 : Psychological Types 

with apparent indifference or a repelling coldness. Often 
they are made to feel entirely superfluous. Faced with any- 
thing that might carry her away or arouse enthusiasm, this 
type observes a benevolent though critical neutrality, cou- 
pled with a faint trace of superiority that soon takes the 
wind out of the sails of a sensitive person. Any stormy 
emotion, however, will be struck down with murderous 
coldness, unless it happens to catch the woman on her un- 
conscious side — that is, unless it hits her feelings by arous- 
ing a primordial image. In that case she simply feels 
paralyzed for the moment, and this in due course invariably 
produces an even more obstinate resistance which will hit 
the other person in his most vulnerable spot. As far as 
possible, the feeling relationship is kept to the safe middle 
path, all intemperate passions being resolutely tabooed. 
Expressions of feeling therefore remain niggardly, and the 
other person has a permanent sense of being undervalued 
once he becomes conscious of it. But this need not always 
be so, because very often he remains unconscious of the 
lack of feeling shown to him, in which case the unconscious 
demands of feeling will produce symptoms designed to 
compel attention. 

Since this type appears rather cold and reserved, it might 
seem on a superficial view that such women have no feel- 
ings at all. But this would be quite wrong; the truth is, their 
feelings are intensive rather than extensive. They develop 
in depth. While an extensive feeling of sympathy can ex- 
press itself in appropriate words and deeds, and thus 
quickly gets back to normal again, an intensive sympathy, 
being shut off from every means of expression, acquires a 
passionate depth that comprises a whole world of misery 
and simply gets benumbed. It may perhaps break out in 
some extravagant form and lead to an astounding act of 
almost heroic character, quite unrelated either to the 
subject herself or to the object that provoked the outburst. 
To the outside world, or to the blind eyes of the extravert, 
this intensive sympathy looks like coldness, because usually 

General Description of the Types ; 249 

it docs nothing visible, and an extraverted consciousness is 
unable to believe in invisible forces. Such a misunderstand- 
ing is a common occurrence in the life of this type, and is 
used as a weighty argument against the possibility of any 
deeper feeling relation with the object. But the real object 
of this feeling is only dimly divined by the normal type her- 
self. It may express itself in a secret religiosity anxiously 
guarded from profane eyes, or in intimate poetic forms 
that are kept equally well hidden, not without the secret 
ambition of displaying some kind of superiority over the 
other person by this means. Women often express a good 
deal of their feelings through their children, letting their 
passion flow secretly into them. 

Although this tendency to overpower or coerce the other 
person with her secret feelings rarely plays a disturbing 
role in the normal type, and never leads to a serious attempt 
of this kind, some trace of it nevertheless seeps through 
into the personal effect they have on him, in the form of a 
domineering influence often difficult to define. It is sensed 
as a sort of stifling or oppressive feeling which holds every- 
body around her under a spell. It gives a woman of this 
type a mysterious power that may prove terribly fascinating 
to the extraverted man, for it touches his unconscious. This 
power comes from the deeply felt, unconscious images, 
but consciously she is apt to relate it to the ego, whereupon 
her influence becomes debased into a personal tyranny. 
Whenever the unconscious subject is identified with the 
ego, the mysterious power of intensive feeling turns into a 
banal and overweening desire to dominate, into vanity and 
despotic bossiness. This produces a type of woman notori- 
ous for her unscrupulous ambition and mischievous cruelty. 
It is a change, however, that leads to neurosis. 

So long as the ego feels subordinate to the unconscious 
subject, and feeling is aware of something higher and 
mightier than the ego, the type is normal. Although the 
unconscious thinking is archaic, its reductive tendencies 
help to compensate the occasional fits of trying to exalt the 

250 : Psychological Types 

ego into the subject. If this should nevertheless happen as 
a result of complete suppression of the counterbalancing 
subliminal processes, the unconscious thinking goes over 
into open opposition and gets projected. The egocentrized 
subject now comes to feel the power and importance of the 
devalued object. She begins consciously to feel "what other 
people think." Naturally, other people are thinking all sorts 
of mean things, scheming evil, contriving plots, secret in- 
trigues, etc. In order to forestall them, she herself is obliged 
to start counter-intrigues, to suspect others and sound them 
out, and weave counterplots. Beset by rumours, she must 
make frantic efforts to get her own back and be top dog. 
Endless clandestine rivalries spring up, and in these em- 
bittered struggles she will shrink from no baseness or mean- 
ness, and will even prostitute her virtues in order to play 
the trump card. Such a state of affairs must end in exhaus- 
tion. The form of neurosis is neurasthenic rather than 
hysterical, often with severe physical complications, such 
as anaemia and its sequelae. 

Summary of the Introverted Rational Types 

Both the foregoing types may be termed rational, since 
they are grounded on the functions of rational judgment, 
Rational judgment is based not merely on objective but 
also on subjective data. The predominance of one or the 
other factor, however, as a result of a psychic disposition 
often existing from early youth, will give the judgment a 
corresponding bias. A judgment that is truly rational will 
appeal to the objective and the subjective factor equally 
and do justice to both. But that would be an ideal case and 
would presuppose an equal development of both extraver- 
sion and introversion. In practice, however, either move- 
ment excludes the other, and, so long as this dilemma 
remains, they cannot exist side by side but at best suc- 
cessively. Under ordinary conditions, therefore, an ideal 


General Description of the Types : 251 

rationality is impossible. The rationality of a rational type 
always has a typical bias. Thus, the judgment of the intro- 
verted rational types is undoubtedly rational, only it is 
oriented more by the subjective factor. This does not neces- 
sarily imply any logical bias, since the bias lies in the 
premise. The premise consists in the predominance of the 
subjective factor prior to all conclusions and judgments. 
The superior value of the subjective as compared with the 
objective factor appears self-evident from the beginning. 
It is not a question of assigning this value, but, as we 
have said, of a natural disposition existing before all ra- 
tional valuation. Hence, to the introvert, rational judgment 
has many nuances which differentiate it from that of the 
extravert. To mention only the most general instance, the 
chain of reasoning that leads to the subjective factor seems 
to the introvert somewhat more rational than the one that 
leads to the object. This difference, though slight and prac- 
tically unnoticeable in individual cases, builds up in the end 
to unbridgeable discrepancies which are the more irritating 
the less one is aware of the minimal shift of standpoint 
occasioned by the psychological premise. A capital error 
regularly creeps in here, for instead of recognizing the 
difference in the premise one tries to demonstrate a fallacy 
in the conclusion. This recognition is a difficult matter for 
every rational type, since it undermines the apparently 
absolute validity of his own principle and delivers him 
over to its antithesis, which for him amounts to a catas- 

The introvert is far more subject to misunderstanding 
than the extravert, not so much because the extravert is a 
more merciless or critical adversary than he himself might 
be, but because the style of the times which he himself 
imitates works against him. He finds himself in the minor- 
ity, not in numerical relation to the extravert, but in rela- 
tion to the general Western view of the world as judged 
by his feeling. In so far as he is a convinced participator 
in the general style, he undermines his own foundations; 

252 ; Psychological Types 

for the general style, acknowledging as it does only the 
visible and tangible values, is opposed to his specific prin- 
ciple. Because of its invisibility, he is obliged to depreciate 
the subjective factor, and must force himself to join in the 
extraverted overvaluation of the object. He himself sets the 
subjective factor at too low a value, and his feelings of 
inferiority are his chastisement for this sin. Little wonder, 
therefore, that it is precisely in the present epoch, and 
particularly in those movements which are somewhat ahead 
of the time, that the subjective factor reveals itself in 
exaggerated, tasteless forms of expression bordering on 
caricature. I refer to the art of the present day. 

The undervaluation of his own principle makes the intro- 
vert egotistical and forces on him the psychology of the 
underdog. The more egotistical he becomes, the more it 
seems to him that the others, who are apparently able, 
without qualms, to conform to the general style, are the 
oppressors against whom he must defend himself. He 
generally does not see that his chief error lies in not de- 
pending on the subjective factor with the same trust and 
devotion with which the extravert relies on the object. His 
undervaluation of his own principle makes his leanings 
towards egotism unavoidable, and because of this he fully 
deserves the censure of the extravert. If he remained true 
to his own principle, the charge of egotism would be 
altogether false, for his attitude would be justified by its 
effects in general, and the misunderstanding would be 


Sensation, which by its very nature is dependent on the 
object and on objective stimuli, undergoes considerable 
modification in the introverted attitude. It, too, has a 
subjective factor, for besides the sensed object there is a 
sensing subject who adds his subjective disposition to the 

General Description of the Types : 253 

objective stimulus. In the introverted attitude sensation is 
based predominantly on the subjective component of per- 
ception. What I mean by this is best illustrated by works 
of art which reproduce external objects. If, for instance, 
several painters were to paint the same landscape, each 
trying to reproduce it faithfully, each painting will be 
different from the others, not merely because of differ- 
ences in ability, but chiefly because of different ways of 
seeing; indeed, in some of the paintings there will be a 
distinct psychic difference in mood and the treatment of 
colour and form. These qualities betray the influence of 
the subjective factor. The subjective factor in sensation is 
essentially the same as in the other functions we have dis- 
cussed. It is an unconscious disposition which alters the 
sense-perception at its source, thus depriving it of the 
character of a purely objective influence. In this case, 
sensation is related primarily to the subject and only sec- 
ondarily to the object. How extraordinarily strong the 
subjective factor can be is shown most clearly in art. Its 
predominance sometimes amounts to a complete suppres- 
sion of the object's influence, and yet the sensation remains 
sensation even though it has become a perception of the 
subjective factor and the object has sunk to the level of a 
mere stimulus. Introverted sensation is oriented accord- 
ingly. True sense-perception certainly exists, but it always 
looks as though the object did not penetrate into the sub- 
ject in its own right, but as though the subject were seeing 
it quite differently, or saw quite other things than other 
people sec. Actually, he perceives the same things as 
everybody else, only he does not stop at the purely ob- 
jective influence, but concerns himself with the subjective 
perception excited by the objective stimulus. 

Subjective perception is markedly different from the 
objective. What is perceived is either not found at all in 
the object, or is, at most, merely suggested by it. That is, 
although the perception can be similar to that of other 
men, it is not immediately derived from the objective be- 

254 •* Psychological Types 

haviour of things. It does not impress one as a mere prod- 
uct of consciousness — it is too genuine for that. But it 
makes a definite psychic impression because elements of 
a higher psychic order are discernible in it. This order, 
however, does not coincide with the contents of conscious- 
ness. It has to do with presuppositions or dispositions of 
the collective unconscious, with mythological images, with 
primordial possibilities of ideas. Subjective perception is 
characterized by the meaning that clings to it. It means 
more than the mere image of the object, though naturally 
only to one for whom the subjective factor means anything 
at all. To another, the reproduced subjective impression 
seems to suffer from the defect of not being sufficiently 
like the object and therefore to have failed in its purpose. 
Introverted sensation apprehends the background of the 
physical world rather than its surface. The decisive thing 
is not the reality of the object, but the reality of the sub- 
jective factor, of the primordial images which, in their 
totality, constitute a psychic mirror-world. It is a mirror 
with the peculiar faculty of reflecting the existing con- 
tents of consciousness not in their known and customary 
form but, as it were, sub specie aeternitatis, somewhat as 
a million-year-old consciousness might see them. Such a 
consciousness would see the becoming and passing away 
of things simultaneously with their momentary existence 
in the present, and not only that, it would also see what 
was before their becoming and will be after their passing 
hence. Naturally this is only a figure of speech, but one 
that I needed in order to illustrate in some way the peculiar 
nature of introverted sensation. We could say that in- 
troverted sensation transmits an image which does not so 
much reproduce the object as spread over it the patina of 
age-old subjective experience and the shimmer of events 
still unborn. The bare sense impression develops in depth, 
reaching into the past and future, while extraverted sensa- 
tion seizes on the momentary existence of things open to 
the light of day. 

General Description of the Types : 255 

The Introverted Sensation Type 

The predominance of introverted sensation produces a 
definite type, which is characterized by certain peculiarities. 
It is an irrational type, because it is oriented amid the 
flux of events not by rational judgment but simply by what 
happens. Whereas the extraverted sensation type is guided 
by the intensity of objective influences, the introverted 
type is guided by the intensity of the subjective sensation 
excited by the objective stimulus. Obviously, therefore, no 
proportional relation exists between object and sensation, 
but one that is apparently quite unpredictable and arbi- 
trary. What will make an impression and what will not 
can never be seen in advance, and from outside. Did 
there exist an aptitude for expression in any way propor- 
tional to the intensity of his sensations, the irrationality of 
this type would be extraordinarily striking. This is the 
case, for instance, when an individual is a creative artist. 
But since this is the exception, the introvert's characteristic 
difficulty in expressing himself also conceals his irrational- 
ity. On the contrary, he may be conspicuous for his calm- 
ness and passivity, or for his rational self-control. This 
peculiarity, which often leads a superficial judgment astray, 
is really due to his unrelatedness to objects. Normally the 
object is not consciously devalued in the least, but its 
stimulus is removed from it and immediately replaced by 
a subjective reaction no longer related to the reality of the 
object. This naturally has the same effect as devaluation. 
Such a type can easily make one question why one should 
exist at all, or why objects in general should have any 
justification for their existence since everything essential 
still goes on happening without them. This doubt may be 
justified in extreme cases, but not in the normal, since the 
objective stimulus is absolutely necessary to sensation and 
merely produces something different from what the ex- 
ternal situation might lead one to expect. 

256 : Psychological Types 

Seen from the outside, it looks as though the effect of 
the object did not penetrate into the subject at all. This 
impression is correct inasmuch as a subjective content does, 
in fact, intervene from the unconscious and intercept the 
effect of the object. The intervention may be so abrupt 
that the individual appears to be shielding himself directly 
from all objective influences. In more serious cases, such 
a protective defence actually does exist. Even with only 
a slight increase in the power of the unconscious, the sub- 
jective component of sensation becomes so alive that it 
almost completely obscures the influence of the object. If 
the object is a person, he feels completely devalued, while 
the subject has an illusory conception of reality, which in 
pathological cases goes so far that he is no longer able to 
distinguish between the real object and the subjective per- 
ception. Although so vital a distinction reaches the vanish- 
ing point only in near-psychotic states, yet long before 
that the subjective perception can influence thought, feel- 
ing, and action to an excessive degree despite the fact 
that the object is clearly seen in all its reality. When its 
influence does succeed in penetrating into the subject — 
because of its special intensity or because of its complete 
analogy with the unconscious image — even the normal type 
will be compelled to act in accordance with the uncon- 
scious model. Such action has an illusory character un- 
related to objective reality and is extremely disconcerting. 
It instantly reveals the reality-alienating subjectivity of this 
type. But when the influence of the object does not break 
through completely, it is met with a well-intentioned neu- 
trality, disclosing little sympathy yet constantly striving to 
soothe and adjust. The too low is raised a little, the too 
high is lowered, enthusiasm is damped down, extravagance 
restrained, and anything out of the ordinary reduced to 
the right formula — all this in order to keep the influence 
of the object within the necessary bounds. In this way 
the type becomes a menace to his environment because 
his total innocuousness is not altogether above suspicion. 
In that case he easily becomes a victim of the aggressive- 

General Description of the Types : 257 

ness and domineeringness of others. Such men allow them- 
selves to be abused and then take their revenge on the 
most unsuitable occasions with redoubled obtuseness and 

If no capacity for artistic expression is present, all im- 
pressions sink into the depths and hold consciousness under 
a spell, so that it becomes impossible to master their fas- 
cination by giving them conscious expression. In general, 
this type can organize his impressions • only in archaic 
ways, because thinking and feeling are relatively uncon- 
scious and, if conscious at all, have at their disposal only 
the most necessary, banal, everyday means of expression. 
As conscious functions, they are wholly incapable of ade- 
quately reproducing his subjective perceptions. This type, 
therefore, is uncommonly inaccessible to objective under- 
standing, and he usually fares no better in understanding 

Above all, his development alienates him from the reality 
of the object, leaving him at the mercy of his subjective 
perceptions, which orient his consciousness to an archaic 
reality, although his lack of comparative judgment keeps 
him wholly unconscious of this fact. Actually he lives in 
a mythological world, where men, animals, locomotives, 
houses, rivers, and mountains appear either as benevolent 
deities or as malevolent demons. That they appear thus 
to him never enters his head, though that is just the effect 
they have on his judgments and actions. He judges and 
acts as though he had such powers to deal with; but this 
begins to strike him only when he discovers that his sensa- 
tions are totally different from reality. If he has any apti- 
tude for objective reason, he will sense this difference as 
morbid; but if he remains faithful to his irrationality, and 
is ready to grant his sensations reality value, the objective 
world will appear a mere make-believe and a comedy. 
Only in extreme cases, however, is this dilemma reached. 
As a rule he resigns himself to his isolation and the banality 
of the world, which he has unconsciously made archaic. 

His unconscious is distinguished chiefly by the repression 

258 : Psychological Types 

of intuition, which consequently acquires an extraverted 
and archaic character. Whereas true extraverted intuition 
is possessed of a singular resourcefulness, a "good nose" 
for objectively real possibilities, this archaicized intuition 
has an amazing flair for all the ambiguous, shadowy, sor- 
did, dangerous possibilities lurking in the background. The 
real and conscious intentions of the object mean nothing 
to it; instead, it sniffs out every conceivable archaic motive 
underlying such an intention. It therefore has a dangerous 
and destructive quality that contrasts glaringly with the 
well-meaning innocuousness of the conscious attitude. So 
long as the individual does not hold too aloof from the 
object, his unconscious intuition has a salutary compen- 
sating effect on the rather fantastic and overcredulous 
attitude of consciousness. But as soon as the unconscious 
becomes antagonistic, the archaic intuitions come to the 
surface and exert their pernicious influence, forcing them- 
selves on the individual and producing compulsive ideas 
of the most perverse kind. The result is usually a compul- 
sion neurosis, in which the hysterical features are masked 
by symptoms of exhaustion. 


Introverted intuition is directed to the inner object, a 
term that might justly be applied to the contents of the 
unconscious. The relation of inner objects to consciousness 
is entirely analogous to that of outer objects, though their 
reality is not physical but psychic. They appear to intui- 
tive perception as subjective images of things which, 
though not to be met with in the outside world, constitute 
the contents of the unconscious, and of the collective un- 
conscious in particular. These contents per se are naturally 
not accessible to experience, a quality they have in com- 
mon with external objects. For just as external objects 
correspond only relatively to our perception of them, so 

General Description of the Types : 259 

the phenomenal forms of the inner objects are also rela- 
tive — products of their (to us) inaccessible essence and of 
the peculiar nature of the intuitive function. 

Like sensation, intuition has its subjective factor, which 
is suppressed as much as possible in the extraverted atti- 
tude but is the decisive factor in the intuition of the in- 
trovert. Although his intuition may be stimulated by ex- 
ternal objects, it does not concern itself with external 
possibilities but with what the external object has released 
within him. Whereas introverted sensation is mainly re- 
stricted to the perception, via the unconscious, of the 
phenomena of innervation and is arrested there, intro- 
verted intuition suppresses this side of the subjective factor 
and perceives the image that caused the innervation. Sup- 
posing, for instance, a man is overtaken by an attack of 
psychogenic vertigo. Sensation is arrested by the peculiar 
nature of this disturbance of innervation, perceiving all 
its qualities, its intensity, its course, how it arose and how 
it passed, but not advancing beyond that to its content, 
to the thing that caused the disturbance. Intuition, on the 
other hand, receives from sensation only the impetus to its 
own immediate activity; it peers behind the scenes, quickly 
perceiving the inner image that gave rise to this particular 
form of expression — the attack of vertigo. It sees the 
image of a tottering man pierced through the heart by an 
arrow. This image fascinates the intuitive activity; it is 
arrested by it, and seeks to explore every detail of it. It 
holds fast to the vision, observing with the liveliest interest 
how the picture changes, unfolds, and finally fades. 

In this way introverted intuition perceives all the back- 
ground processes of consciousness with almost the same 
distinctness as extraverted sensation registers external ob- 
jects. For intuition, therefore, unconscious images acquire 
the dignity of things. But, because intuition excludes the 
co-operation of sensation, it obtains little or no knowledge 
of the disturbances of innervation or of the physical efTccts 
produced by the unconscious images. The images appear 

260 : Psychological Types 

as though detached from the subject, as though existing in 
themselves without any relation to him. Consequently, in 
the above-mentioned example, the introverted intuitive, if 
attacked by vertigo, would never imagine that the image 
he perceived might in some way refer to himself. To a 
judging type this naturally seems almost inconceivable, but 
it is none the less a fact which I have often come across 
in my dealings with intuitives. 

The remarkable indifference of the extraverted intuitive 
to external objects is shared by the introverted intuitive in 
relation to inner objects. Just as the extraverted intuitive 
is continually scenting out new possibilities, which he pur- 
sues with equal unconcern for his own welfare and for 
that of others, pressing on quite heedless of human con- 
siderations and tearing down what has just been built in 
his everlasting search for change, so the introverted intui- 
tive moves from image to image, chasing after every possi- 
bility in the teeming womb of the unconscious, without 
establishing any connection between them and himself. 
Just as the world of appearances can never become a 
moral problem for the man who merely senses it, the 
world of inner images is never a moral problem for the 
intuitive. For both of them it is an aesthetic problem, a 
matter of perception, a "sensation." Because of this, the 
introverted intuitive has little consciousness of his own 
bodily existence or of its effect on others. The extravert 
would say: "Reality does not exist for him, he gives him- 
self up to fruitless fantasies." The perception of the images 
of the unconscious, produced in such inexhaustible abun- 
dance by the creative energy of life, is of course fruitless 
from the standpoint of immediate utility. But since these 
images represent possible views of the world which may 
give life a new potential, this function, which to the outside 
world is the strangest of all, is as indispensable to the 
total psychic economy as is the corresponding human type 
to the psychic life of a people. Had this type not existed, 
there would have been no prophets in Israel. 

Introverted intuition apprehends the images arising from 

General Description of the Types : 26 J 

the a priori inherited foundations of the unconscious. These 
archetypes, whose innermost nature is inaccessible to ex- 
perience, are the precipitate of the psychic functioning of 
the whole ancestral line; the accumulated experiences of 
organic life in general, a million times repeated, and con- 
densed into types. In these archetypes, therefore, all ex- 
periences are represented which have happened on this 
planet since primeval times. The more frequent and the 
more intense they were, the more clearly focussed they 
become in the archetype. The archetype would thus be, to 
borrow from Kant, the noumenon of the image which in- 
tuition perceives and, in perceiving, creates. 

Since the unconscious is not just something that lies 
there like a psychic caput mortuum, but co-exists with us 
and is constantly undergoing transformations which are 
inwardly connected with the general run of events, in- 
troverted intuition, through its perception of these inner 
processes, can supply certain data which may be of the 
utmost importance for understanding what is going on in 
the world. It can even foresee new possibilities in more 
or less clear outline, as well as events which later actually 
do happen. Its prophetic foresight is explained by its rela- 
tion to the archetypes, which represent the laws governing 
the course of all experienceable things. 

The Introverted Intuitive Type 

The peculiar nature of introverted intuition, if it gains 
the ascendency, produces a peculiar type of man: the 
mystical dreamer and seer on the one hand, the artist and 
the crank on the other. The artist might be regarded as 
the normal representative of this type, which tends to 
confine itself to the perceptive character of intuition. As 
a rule, the intuitive stops at perception; perception is his 
main problem, and — in the case of a creative artist — the 
shaping of his perception. But the crank is content with 
a visionary idea by which he himself is shaped and deter- 

262 : Psychological Types 

mined. Naturally the intensification of intuition often re- 
sults in an extraordinary aloofness of the individual from 
tangible reality; he may even become a complete enigma 
to his immediate circle. If he is an artist, he reveals strange, 
far-off things in his art, shimmering in all colours, at once 
portentous and banal, beautiful and grotesque, sublime and 
whimsical. If not an artist, he is frequently a misunderstood 
genius, a great man "gone wrong," a sort of wise simple- 
ton, a figure for "psychological" novels. 

Although the intuitive type has little inclination to make 
a moral problem of perception, since a strengthening of 
the judging functions is required for this, only a slight 
differentiation of judgment is sufficient to shift intuitive 
perception from the purely aesthetic into the moral sphere. 
A variety of this type is thus produced which differs essen- 
tially from the aesthetic, although it is none the less char- 
acteristic of the introverted intuitive. The moral problem 
arises when the intuitive tries to relate himself to his vision, 
when he is no longer satisfied with mere perception and 
its aesthetic configuration and evaluation, when he con- 
fronts the questions: What does this mean for me or the 
world? What emerges from this vision in the way of a 
duty or a task, for me or the world? The pure intuitive 
who represses his judgment, or whose judgment is held in 
thrall by his perceptive faculties, never faces this question 
squarely, since his only problem is the "know-how" of 
perception. He finds the moral problem unintelligible or 
even absurd, and as far as possible forbids his thoughts to 
dwell on the disconcerting vision. It is different with the 
morally oriented intuitive. He reflects on the meaning of 
his vision, and is less concerned with developing its aes- 
thetic possibilities than with the moral effects which emerge 
from its intrinsic significance. His judgment allows him 
to discern, though often only darkly, that he, as a man and 
a whole human being, is somehow involved in his vision, 
that it is not just an object to be perceived, but wants to 
participate in the life of the subject. Through this realiza- 

General Description of the Types : 26$ 

tion he feels bound to transform his vision into his own 
life. But since he tends to rely most predominately on his 
vision, his moral efforts become one-sided; he makes him- 
self and his life symbolic — adapted, it is true, to the inner 
and eternal meaning of events, but unadapted to present- 
day reality. He thus deprives himself of any influence upon 
it because he remains uncomprehended. His language is 
not the one currently spoken — it has become too subjec- 
tive. His arguments lack the convincing power of reason. 
He can only profess or proclaim. His is "the voice of one 
crying in the wilderness." 

What the introverted intuitive represses most of all is 
the sensation of the object, and this colours his whole 
unconscious. It gives rise to a compensatory extraverted 
sensation function of an archaic character. The uncon- 
scious personality can best be described as an extraverted 
sensation type of a rather low and primitive order. In- 
stinctuality and intemperance are the hallmarks of this 
sensation, combined with an extraordinary dependence on 
sense-impressions. This compensates the rarefied air of the 
intuitive's conscious attitude, giving it a certain weight, 
so that complete "sublimation" is prevented. But if, through 
a forced exaggeration of the conscious attitude, there 
should be a complete subordination to inner perceptions, 
the unconscious goes over to the opposition, giving rise 
to compulsive sensations whose excessive dependence on 
the object directly contradicts the conscious attitude. The 
form of neurosis is a compulsion neurosis with hypochon- 
driacal symptoms, hypersensitivity of the sense organs, and 
compulsive ties to particular persons or objects. 

Summary of the Introverted Irrational Types 

The two types just described are almost inaccessible to 
judgment from outside. Being introverted, and having in 
consequence little capacity or desire for expression, they 

264 : Psychological Types 

offer but a frail handle in this respect. As their main ac- 
tivity is directed inwards, nothing is outwardly visible but 
reserve, secretiveness, lack of sympathy, uncertainty, and 
an apparently groundless embarrassment. When anything 
does come to the surface, it is generally an indirect mani- 
festation of the inferior and relatively unconscious func- 
tions. Such manifestations naturally arouse all the current 
prejudices against this type. Accordingly they are mostly 
underestimated, or at least misunderstood. To the extent 
that they do not understand themselves — because they 
very largely lack judgment — they are also powerless to 
understand why they are so constantly underestimated by 
the public. They cannot see that their efforts to be forth- 
coming are, as a matter of fact, of an inferior character. 
Their vision is enthralled by the richness of subjective 
events. What is going on inside them is so captivating, and 
of such inexhaustible charm, that they simply do not notice 
that the little they do manage to communicate contains 
hardly anything of what they themselves have experienced. 
The fragmentary and episodic character of their com- 
munications makes too great a demand on the under- 
standing and good will of those around them; also, their 
communications are without the personal warmth that 
alone carries the power of conviction. On the contrary, 
these types have very often a harsh, repelling manner, 
though of this they are quite unaware and they did not 
intend it. We shall form a fairer judgment of such people, 
and show them greater forbearance, when we begin to 
realize how hard it is to translate into intelligible language 
what is perceived within. Yet this forbearance must not 
go so far as to exempt them altogether from the need to 
communicate. This would only do them the greatest harm. 
Fate itself prepares for them, perhaps even more than for 
other men, overwhelming external difficulties which have 
a very sobering effect on those intoxicated by the inner 
vision. Often it is only an intense personal need that can 
wring from them a human confession. 

General Description of the Types : 265 

From an extraverted and rationalistic standpoint, these 
types are indeed the most useless of men. But, viewed from 
a higher standpoint, they are living evidence that this rich 
and varied world with its overflowing and intoxicating life 
is not purely external, but also exists within. These types 
are admittedly one-sided specimens of nature, but they 
are an object-lesson for the man who refuses to be blinded 
by the intellectual fashion of the day. In their own 
way, they are educators and promoters of culture. Their 
life teaches more than their words. From their lives, 
and not least from their greatest fault — their inability to 
communicate — we may understand one of the greatest 
errors of our civilization, that is, the superstitious belief in 
verbal statements, the boundless overestimation of instruc- 
tion by means of words and methods. A child certainly 
allows himself to be impressed by the grand talk of his 
parents, but is it really imagined that he is educated by 
it? Actually it is the parents' lives that educate the child, 
and what they add by word and gesture serves at best 
only to confuse him. The same holds good for the teacher. 
But we have such a belief in method that, if only the 
method be good, the practice of it seems to sanctify the 
teacher. An inferior man is never a good teacher. But he 
can conceal his pernicious inferiority, which secretly poi- 
sons the pupil, behind an excellent method or an equally 
brilliant intellectual gift of the gab. Naturally the pupil of 
riper years desires nothing better than the knowledge of 
useful methods, because he is already defeated by the 
general attitude, which believes in the all-conquering 
method. He has learnt that the emptiest head, correctly 
parroting a method, is the best pupil. His whole environ- 
ment is an optical demonstration that all success and all 
happiness are outside, and that only the right method is 
needed to attain the haven of one's desires. Or does, per- 
chance, the life of his religious instructor demonstrate the 
happiness which radiates from the treasure of the inner 
vision? The irrational introverted types are certainly no 

266 : Psychological Types 

teachers of a more perfect humanity; they lack reason and 
the ethics of reason. But their lives teach the other possi- 
bility, the interior life which is so painfully wanting in our 

d) The Principal and Auxiliary Functions 

In the foregoing descriptions I have no desire to give 
my readers the impression that these types occur at all 
frequently in such pure form in actual life. They are, as 
it were, only Galtonesque family portraits, which single 
out the common and therefore typical features, stressing 
them disproportionately, while the individual features are 
just as disproportionately effaced. Closer investigation 
shows with great regularity that, besides the most differen- 
tiated function, another, less differentiated function of 
secondary importance is invariably present in conscious- 
ness and exerts a co-determining influence. 

To recapitulate for the sake of clarity: the products of 
all functions can be conscious, but we speak of the "con- 
sciousness" of a function only when its use is under the 
control of the will and, at the same time, its governing 
principle is the decisive one for the orientation of con- 
sciousness. This is true when, for instance, thinking is not 
a mere afterthought, or rumination, and when its conclu- 
sions possess an absolute validity, so that the logical re- 
sult holds good both as a motive and as a guarantee of 
practical action without the backing of any further evi- 
dence. This absolute sovereignty always belongs, empir- 
ically, to one function alone, and can belong only to one 
function, because the equally independent intervention of 
another function would necessarily produce a different 
orientation which, partially at least, would contradict the 
first. But since it is a vital condition for the conscious 
process of adaptation always to have clear and unam- 
biguous aims, the presence of a second function of equal 

General Description of the Types : 267 

power is naturally ruled out. This other function, there- 
fore, can have only a secondary importance, as has been 
found to be the case in practice. Its secondary importance 
is due to the fact that it is not, like the primary function, 
valid in its own right as an absolutely reliable and de- 
cisive factor, but comes into play more as an auxiliary or 
complementary function. Naturally only those functions 
can appear as auxiliary whose nature is not opposed to 
the dominant function. For instance, feeling can never 
act as the second function alongside thinking, because it 
is by its very nature too strongly opposed to thinking. 
Thinking, if it is to be real thinking and true to its own 
principle, must rigorously exclude feeling. This, of course, 
does not do away with the fact that there are individuals 
whose thinking and feeling are on the same level, both 
being of equal motive power for consciousness. But in 
these cases there is also no question of a differentiated 
type, but merely of relatively undeveloped thinking and 
feeling. The uniformly conscious or uniformly unconscious 
state of the functions is, therefore, the mark of a primitive 

Experience shows that the secondary function is always 
one whose nature is different from, though not antagonistic 
to, the primary function. Thus, thinking as the primary 
function can readily pair with intuition as the auxiliary, or 
indeed equally well with sensation, but, as already ob- 
served, never with feeling. Neither intuition nor sensation 
is antagonistic to thinking; they need not be absolutely ex- 
cluded, for they are not of a nature equal and opposite to 
thinking, as feeling is — which, as a judging function, suc- 
cessfully competes with thinking — but are functions of 
perception, affording welcome assistance to thought. But 
as soon as they reached the same level of differentiation 
as thinking, they would bring about a change of attitude 
which would contradict the whole trend of thinking. They 
would change the judging attitude into a perceiving one; 
whereupon the principle of rationality indispensable to 

268 : Psychological Types 

thought would be suppressed in favour of the irrationality 
of perception. Hence the auxiliary function is possible and 
useful only in so far as it serves the dominant function, 
without making any claim to the autonomy of its own 

For all the types met with in practice, the rule holds 
good that besides the conscious, primary function there is 
a relatively unconscious, auxiliary function which is in 
every respect different from the nature of the primary 
function. The resulting combinations present the familiar 
picture of, for instance, practical thinking allied with 
sensation, speculative thinking forging ahead with intui- 
tion, artistic intuition selecting and presenting its images 
with the help of feeling-values, philosophical intuition 
systematizing its vision into comprehensible thought by 
means of a powerful intellect, and so on. 

The unconscious functions likewise group themselves in 
patterns correlated with the conscious ones. Thus, the 
correlative of conscious, practical thinking may be an 
unconscious, intuitive-feeling attitude, with feeling under 
a stronger inhibition than intuition. These peculiarities are 
of interest only for one who is concerned with the prac- 
tical treatment of such cases, but it is important that he 
should know about them. I have frequently observed how 
an analyst, confronted with a terrific thinking type, for 
instance, will do his utmost to develop the feeling function 
directly out of the unconscious. Such an attempt is fore- 
doomed to failure, because it involves too great a violation 
of the conscious standpoint. Should the violation never- 
theless be successful, a really compulsive dependence of 
the patient on the analyst ensues, a transference that can 
only be brutally terminated, because, having been left with- 
out a standpoint, the patient has made his standpoint the 
analyst. But the approach to the unconscious and to the 
most repressed function is disclosed, as it were, of its own 
accord, and with adequate protection of the conscious 
standpoint, when the way of development proceeds via 

General Description of the Types : 269 

the auxiliary function — in the case of a rational type via 
one of the irrational functions. This gives the patient a 
broader view of what is happening, and of what is possible, 
so that his consciousness is sufficiently protected against 
the inroads of the unconscious. Conversely, in order to 
cushion the impact of the unconscious, an irrational type 
needs a stronger development of the rational auxiliary 
function present in consciousness. 

The unconscious functions exist in an archaic, animal 
state. Hence their symbolic appearance in dreams and 
fantasies is usually represented as the battle or encounter 
between two animals or monsters. 

& Part II & 


The Transcendent Function 1 

There is nothing mysterious or metaphysical about the term 
"transcendent function." It means a psychological function 
comparable in its way to a mathematical function of the 
same name, which is a function of real and imaginary num- 
bers. The psychological "transcendent function" arises from 
the union of conscious and unconscious contents. 

Experience in analytical psychology has amply shown 
that the conscious and the unconscious seldom agree as to 
their contents and their tendencies. This lack of parallelism 
is not just accidental or purposeless, but is due to the fact 
that the unconscious behaves in a compensatory or com- 
plementary manner towards the conscious. We can also put 
it the other way round and say that the conscious behaves 

1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Collected Works, 
Vol. 8. [Written in 1916 under the title "Die Transzendente Funk- 
tion," the ms. lay in Professor Jung's files until 1953. First published 
in 1957 by the Students Association, C. G. Jung Institute, Zurich, 
in an English translation by A. R. Pope. The German original, con- 
siderably revised by the author, was published in Geist und Werk 
. . . zum 75. Geburtstag von Dr. Daniel Brody (Zurich, 1958), to- 
gether with a prefatory note of more general import specially written 
for that volume. The author has partially rewritten the note for 
publication here. The present translation is based on the revised 
German version, and Mr. Pope's translation has been consulted. — 
Editors of The Collected Works.] 


274 •' The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

in a complementary manner towards the unconscious. The 
reasons for this relationship are: 

(i) Consciousness possesses a threshold intensity which 
its contents must have attained, so that all elements that are 
too weak remain in the unconscious. 

(2) Consciousness, because of its directed functions, ex- 
ercises an inhibition (which Freud calls censorship) on all 
incompatible material, with the result that it sinks into the 

(3) Consciousness constitutes the momentary process of 
adaptation, whereas the unconscious contains not only all 
the forgotten material of the individual's own past, but all 
the inherited behaviour traces constituting the structure of 
the mind. 

(4) The unconscious contains all the fantasy combina- 
tions which have not yet attained the threshold intensity, 
but which in the course of time and under suitable condi- 
tions will enter the light of consciousness. 

This readily explains the complementary attitude of the 
unconscious towards the conscious. 

The definiteness and directedness of the conscious mind 
are qualities that have been acquired relatively late in the 
history of the human race, and are for instance largely lack- 
ing among primitives today. These qualities are often im- 
paired in the neurotic patient, who differs from the normal 
person in that his threshold of consciousness gets shifted 
more easily; in other words, the partition between con- 
scious and unconscious is much more permeable. The psy- 
chotic, on the other hand, is under the direct influence of 
the unconscious. 

The definiteness and directedness of the conscious mind 
are extremely important acquisitions which humanity has 
bought at a very heavy sacrifice, and which in turn have 
rendered humanity the highest service. Without them sci- 
ence, technology, and civilization would be impossible, for 
they all presuppose the reliable continuity and directedness 
of the conscious process. For the statesman, doctor, and 

The Transcendent Function : 275 

engineer as well as for the simplest labourer, these qualities 
are absolutely indispensable. We may say in general that 
social worthlessness increases to the degree that these quali- 
ties are impaired by the unconscious. Great artists and 
others distinguished by creative gifts are, of course, excep- 
tions to this rule. The very advantage that such individuals 
enjoy consists precisely in the permeability of the partition 
separating the conscious and the unconscious. But, for 
those professions and social activities which require just this 
continuity and reliability, these exceptional human beings 
are as a rule of little value. 

It is therefore understandable, and even necessary, that 
in each individual the psychic process should be as stable 
and definite as possible, since the exigencies of life demand 
it. But this involves a certain disadvantage: the quality of 
directedness makes for the inhibition or exclusion of all 
those psychic elements which appear to be, or really are, 
incompatible with it, i.e., likely to bias the intended direc- 
tion to suit their purpose and so lead to an undesircd goal. 
But how do we know that the concurrent psychic material 
is "incompatible"? We know it by an act of judgment 
which determines the direction of the path that is chosen 
and desired. This judgment is partial and prejudiced, since 
it chooses one particular possibility at the cost of all the 
others. The judgment in its turn is always based on experi- 
ence, i.e., on what is already known. As a rule it is never 
based on what is new, what is still unknown, and what 
under certain conditions might considerably enrich the di- 
rected process. It is evident that it cannot be, for the very 
reason that the unconscious contents are excluded from 

Through such acts of judgment the directed process 
necessarily becomes one-sided, even though the rational 
judgment may appear many-sided and unprejudiced. The 
very rationality of the judgment may even be the worst 
prejudice, since we call reasonable what appears reasonable 
to us. What appears to us unreasonable is therefore doomed 

2j6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

to be excluded because of its irrational character. It may 
really be irrational, but may equally well merely appear ir- 
rational without actually being so when seen from another 

One-sidedness is an unavoidable and necessary charac- 
teristic of the directed process, for direction implies one- 
sidedness. It is an advantage and a drawback at the same 
time. Even when no outwardly visible drawback seems to 
be present, there is always an equally pronounced counter- 
position in the unconscious, unless it happens to be the ideal 
case where all the psychic components are tending in one 
and the same direction. This possibility cannot be disputed 
in theory, but in practice it very rarely happens. The 
counter-position in the unconscious is not dangerous so long 
as it does not possess any high energy-value. But if the ten- 
sion increases as a result of too great one-sidedness, the 
counter-tendency breaks through into consciousness, usually 
just at the moment when it is most important to maintain 
the conscious direction. Thus the speaker makes a slip of 
the tongue just when he particularly wishes not to say any- 
thing stupid. This moment is critical because it possesses a 
high energy tension which, when the unconscious is already 
charged, may easily "spark" and release the unconscious 

Civilized life today demands concentrated, directed con- 
scious functioning, and this entails the risk of a consider- 
able dissociation from the unconscious. The further we are 
able to remove ourselves from the unconscious through di- 
rected functioning, the more readily a powerful counter- 
position can build up in the unconscious, and when this 
breaks out it may have disagreeable consequences. 

Analysis has given us a profound insight into the impor- 
tance of unconscious influences, and we have learnt so 
much from this for our practical life that we deem it unwise 
to expect an elimination or standstill of. the unconscious 
after the so-called completion of the treatment. Many pa- 
tients, obscurely recognizing this state of affairs, have great 

The Transcendent Function : 277 

difficulty in deciding to give up the analysis, although both 
they and the analyst find the feeling of dependency irksome. 
Often they are afraid to risk standing on their own feet, 
because they know from experience that the unconscious 
can intervene again and again in their lives in a disturbing 
and apparently unpredictable manner. 

It was formerly assumed that patients were ready to cope 
with normal life as soon as they had acquired enough prac- 
tical self-knowledge to understand their own dreams. Ex- 
perience has shown, however, that even professional ana- 
lysts, who might be expected to have mastered the art of 
dream interpretation, often capitulate before their own 
dreams and have to call in the help of a colleague. If even 
one who purports to be an expert in the method proves un- 
able to interpret his own dreams satisfactorily, how much 
less can this be expected of the patient. Freud's hope that 
the unconscious could be "exhausted" has not been fulfilled. 
Dream-life and intrusions from the unconscious continue — 
mutatis mutandis — unimpeded. 

There is a widespread prejudice that analysis is some- 
thing like a "cure," to which one submits for a time and is 
then discharged healed. That is a layman's error left over 
from the early days of psychoanalysis. Analytical treatment 
could be described as a readjustment of psychological atti- 
tude achieved with the help of the doctor. Naturally this 
newly won attitude, which is better suited to the inner and 
outer conditions, can last a considerable time, but there are 
very few cases where a single "cure" is permanently suc- 
cessful. It is true that medical optimism has never stinted 
itself of publicity and has always been able to report defini- 
tive cures We must, however, not let ourselves be deceived 
by the all-too-human attitude of the practitioner, but should 
always remember that the life of the unconscious goes on 
and continually produces problematical situations. There is 
no need for pessimism; we have seen too many excellent re- 
sults achieved with good luck and honest work for that. 
But this need not prevent us from recognizing that analysis 

278 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

is no once-and-for-all "cure"; it is no more, at first, than a 
more or less thorough readjustment. There is no change 
that is unconditionally valid over a long period of time. 
Life has always to be tackled anew. There are, of course, 
extremely durable collective attitudes which permit the so- 
lution of typical conflicts. A collective attitude enables the 
individual to fit into society without friction, since it acts 
upon him like any other condition of life. But the patient's 
difficulty consists precisely in the fact that his individual 
problem cannot be fitted without friction into a collective 
norm; it requires the solution of an individual conflict if 
the whole of his personality is to remain viable. No rational 
solution can do justice to this task, and there is absolutely 
no collective norm that could replace an individual solution 
without loss. 

The new attitude gained in the course of analysis tends 
sooner or later to become inadequate in one way or an- 
other, and necessarily so, because the constant flow of life 
again and again demands fresh adaptation. Adaptation is 
never achieved once and for all. One might certainly de- 
mand of analysis that it should enable the patient to gain 
new orientations in later life, too, without undue difficulty. 
And experience shows that this is true up to a point. We 
often find that patients who have gone through a thorough 
analysis have considerably less difficulty with new adjust- 
ments later on. Nevertheless, these difficulties prove to be 
fairly frequent and may at times be really troublesome. 
That is why even patients who have had a thorough analy- 
sis often turn to their old analyst for help at some later 
period. In the light of medical practice in general there is 
nothing very unusual about this, but it does contradict a 
certain misplaced enthusiasm on the part of the therapist as 
well as the view that analysis constitutes a unique "cure." 
In the last resort it is highly improbable that there could 
ever be a therapy that got rid of all difficulties. Man needs 
difficulties; they are necessary for health. What concerns 
us here is only an excessive amount of them. 

The Transcendent Function : 279 

The basic question for the therapist is not how to get rid 
of the momentary difficulty, but how future difficulties may 
be successfully countered. The question is: what kind of 
mental and moral attitude is it necessary to have towards 
the disturbing influences of the unconscious, and how can it 
be conveyed to the patient? 

The answer obviously consists in getting rid of the sepa- 
ration between conscious and unconscious. This cannot be 
done by condemning the contents of the unconscious in a 
one-sided way, but rather by recognizing their significance 
in compensating the one-sidedness of consciousness and by 
taking this significance into account. The tendencies of the 
conscious and the unconscious are the two factors that to- 
gether make up the transcendent function. It is called 
"transcendent" because it makes the transition from one 
attitude to another organically possible, without loss of the 
unconscious. The constructive or synthetic method of treat- 
ment presupposes insights which are at least potentially 
present in the patient and can therefore be made conscious. 
If the analyst knows nothing of these potentialities he can- 
not help the patient to develop them either, unless analyst 
and patient together devote proper scientific study to this 
problem, which as a rule is out of the question. 

In actual practice, therefore, the suitably trained analyst 
mediates the transcendent function for the patient, i.e., 
helps him to bring conscious and unconscious together and 
so arrive at a new attitude. In this function of the analyst 
lies one of the many important meanings of the transfer- 
ence. The patient clings by means of the transference to the 
person who seems to promise him a renewal of attitude; 
through it he seeks this change, which is vital to him, even 
though he may not be conscious of doing so. For the pa- 
tient, therefore, the analyst has the character of an indis- 
pensable figure absolutely necessary for life. However in- 
fantile this dependence may appear to be, it expresses an 
extremely important demand which, if disappointed, often 
turns to bitter hatred of the analyst. It is therefore impor- 

280 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

tant to know what this demand concealed in the transfer- 
ence is really aiming at; there is a tendency to understand 
it in the reductive sense only, as an erotic infantile fantasy. 
But that would mean taking this fantasy, which is usually 
concerned with the parents, literally, as though the patient, 
or rather his unconscious, still had the expectations the 
child once had towards the parents. Outwardly it still is the 
same expectation of the child for the help and protection 
of the parents, but in the meantime the child has become 
an adult, and what was normal for a child is improper in an 
adult. It has become a metaphorical expression of the not 
consciously realized need for help in a crisis. Historically 
it is correct to explain the erotic character of the transfer- 
ence in terms of the infantile eros. But in that way the 
meaning and purpose of the transference are not under- 
stood, and its interpretation as an infantile sexual fantasy 
leads away from the real problem. The understanding of the 
transference is to be sought not in its historical antecedents 
but in its purpose. The one-sided, reductive explanation 
becomes in the end nonsensical, especially when absolutely 
nothing new comes out of it except the increased resistances 
of the patient. The sense of boredom which then appears in 
the analysis is simply an expression of the monotony and 
poverty of ideas — not of the unconscious, as is sometimes 
supposed, but of the analyst, who does not understand that 
these fantasies should not be taken merely in a concretistic- 
reductive sense, but rather in a constructive one. When 
this is realized, the standstill is often overcome at a single 

Constructive treatment of the unconscious, that is, the 
question of meaning and purpose, paves the way for the 
patient's insight into that process which I call the tran- 
scendent function. 

It may not be superfluous, at this point, to say a few 
words about the frequently heard objection that the con- 
structive method is simply "suggestion." The method is 
based, rather, on evaluating the symbol (i.e., dream-image 

The Transcendent Function : 281 

or fantasy) not semiotically, as a sign for elementary in- 
stinctual processes, but symbolically in the true sense, the 
word "symbol" being taken to mean the best possible ex- 
pression for a complex fact not yet clearly apprehended by 
consciousness. Through reductive analysis of this expres- 
sion nothing is gained but a clearer view of the elements 
originally composing it, and though I would not deny that 
increased insight into these elements may have its advan- 
tages, it nevertheless bypasses the question of purpose. Dis- 
solution of the symbol at this stage of analysis is therefore 
a mistake. To begin with, however, the method for working 
out the complex meanings suggested by the symbol is the 
same as in reductive analysis. The associations of the pa- 
tient are obtained, and as a rule they are plentiful enough to 
be used in the synthetic method. Here again they are evalu- 
ated not semiotically but symbolically. The question we 
must ask is: to what meaning do the individual associations 
A, B, C point, when taken in conjunction with the manifest 

An unmarried woman patient dreamt that someone gave 
her a wonderful, richly ornamented, antique sword dug up 
out of a tumulus. 


Her father's dagger, which he once flashed in the sun in front of 
her. It made a great impression on her. Her father was in every re- 
spect an energetic, strong-willed man, with an impetuous tempera- 
ment, and adventurous in love affairs. A Celtic bronze sword: Pa- 
tient is proud of her Celtic ancestry. The Celts are full of tempera- 
ment, impetuous, passionate. The ornamentation has a mysterious 
look about it, ancient tradition, runes, signs of ancient wisdom, 
ancient civilizations, heritage of mankind, brought to light again 
out of the grave. 


Patient has a pronounced father complex and a rich tissue of 
sexual fantasies about her father, whom she lost early. She always 
put herself in her mother's place, although with strong resistances 
towards her father. She has never been able to accept a man like 
her father and has therefore chosen weakly, neurotic men against 
her will. Also in the analysis violent resistance towards the physician- 

282 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

father. The dream digs up her wish for her father's "weapon." The 
rest is clear, In theory, this would immediately point to a phallic 


It is as if the patient needed such a weapon. Her father had the 
weapon. He was energetic, lived accordingly, and also took upon 
himself the difficulties inherent in his temperament. Therefore, 
though living a passionate, exciting life he was not neurotic. This 
weapon is a very ancient heritage of mankind, which lay buried 
in the patient and was brought to light through excavation 
(analysis). The weapon has to do with insight, with wisdom. It is a 
means of attack and defence. Her father's weapon was a passionate, 
unbending will, with which he made his way through life. Up till 
now the patient has been the opposite in every respect. She is just on 
the point of realizing that a person can also will something and 
need not merely be driven, as she had always believed. The will 
based on a knowledge of life and on insight is an ancient heritage 
of the human race, which also is in her, but till now lay buried, for 
in this respect, too, she is her father's daughter. But she had not 
appreciated this till now, because her character had been that of a 
perpetually whining, pampered, spoilt child. She was extremely 
passive and completely given to sexual fantasies. 

In this case there was no need of any supplementary 
analogies on the part of the analyst. The patient's associ- 
ations provided all that was necessary. It might be objected 
that this treatment of the dream involves suggestion. But 
this ignores the fact that a suggestion is never accepted 
without an inner readiness for it, or if after great insistence 
it is accepted, it is immediately lost again. A suggestion 
that is accepted for any length of time always presupposes 
a marked psychological readiness which is merely brought 
into play by the so-called suggestion. This objection is 
therefore thoughtless and credits suggestion with a magical 
power it in no way possesses, otherwise suggestion therapy 
would have an enormous effect and would render analytical 
procedures quite superfluous. But this is far from being the 
case. Furthermore, the charge of suggestion does not take 
account of the fact that the patient's own associations point 
to the cultural significance of the sword. 

After this digression, let us return to the question of the 
transcendent function. We have seen that during treatment 

The Transcendent Function : 283 

the transcendent function is, in a sense, an "artificial" prod- 
uct because it is largely supported by the analyst. But if the 
patient is to stand on his own feet he must not depend per- 
manently on outside help. The interpretation of dreams 
would be an ideal method for synthesizing the conscious 
and unconscious data, but in practice the difficulties of 
analyzing one's own dreams are too great, 

We must now make clear what is required to produce the 
transcendent function. First and foremost, we need the un- 
conscious material. The most readily accessible expression 
of unconscious processes is undoubtedly dreams. The 
dream is, so to speak, a pure product of the unconscious. 
The alterations which the dream undergoes in the process 
of reaching consciousness, although undeniable, can be con- 
sidered irrelevant, since they too derive from the uncon- 
scious and are not intentional distortions. Possible modifi- 
cations of the original dream-image derive from a more 
superficial layer of the unconscious and therefore contain 
valuable material too. They are further fantasy-products 
following the general trend of the dream. The same applies 
to the subsequent images and ideas which frequently occur 
while dozing or rise up spontaneously on waking. Since the 
dream originates in sleep, it bears all the characteristics of 
an "abaisscment du niveau mental" (Janet), or of low 
energy-tension: logical discontinuity, fragmentary charac- 
ter, analogy formations, superficial associations of the ver- 
bal, clang, or visual type, condensations, irrational expres- 
sions, confusion, etc. With an increase of energy-tension, 
the dreams acquire a more ordered character; they become 
dramatically composed and reveal clear sense-connections, 
and the valency of the associations increases. 

Since the energy-tension in sleep is usually very low, 
dreams, compared with conscious material, are inferior ex- 
pressions of unconscious contents and are very difficult to 
understand from a constructive point of view, but are usu- 
ally easier to understand rcductivcly. In general, dreams are 
unsuitable or difficult to make use of in developing the 

284 .* The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

transcendent function, because they make too great de- 
mands on the subject. 

We must therefore look to other sources for the uncon- 
scious material. There are, for instance, the unconscious in- 
terferences in the waking state, ideas "out of the blue," 
slips, deceptions and lapses of memory, symptomatic ac- 
tions, etc. This material is generally more useful for the 
reductive method than for the constructive one; it is too 
fragmentary and lacks continuity, which is indispensable for 
a meaningful synthesis. 

Another source is spontaneous fantasies. They usually 
have a more composed and coherent character and often 
contain much that is obviously significant. Some patients 
are able to produce fantasies at any time, allowing them to 
rise up freely simply by eliminating critical attention. Such 
fantasies can be used, though this particular talent is none 
too common. The capacity to produce free fantasies can, 
however, be developed with practice. The training consists 
first of all in systematic exercises for eliminating critical 
attention, thus producing a vacuum in consciousness. This 
encourages the emergence of any fantasies that are lying 
in readiness. A prerequisite, of course, is that fantasies with 
a high libido-charge are actually lying ready. This is nat- 
urally not always the case. Where this is not so, special 
measures are required. 

Before entering upon a discussion of these, I must yield 
to an uncomfortable feeling which tells me that the reader 
may be asking dubiously, what really is the point of all 
this? And why is it so absolutely necessary to bring up the 
unconscious contents? Is it not sufficient if from time to 
time they come up of their own accord and make them- 
selves unpleasantly felt? Does one have to drag the uncon- 
scious to the surface by force? On the contrary, should it 
not be the job of analysis to empty the unconscious of fan- 
tasies and in this way render it ineffective? 

It may be as well to consider these misgivings in some- 
what more detail, since the methods for bringing the un- 

The Transcendent Function : 285 

conscious to consciousness may strike the reader as novel, 
unusual, and perhaps even rather weird. We must therefore 
first discuss these natural objections, so that they shall not 
hold us up when we begin demonstrating the methods in 

As we have seen, we need the unconscious contents to 
supplement the conscious attitude. If the conscious attitude 
were only to a slight degree "directed, " the unconscious 
could flow in quite of its own accord. This is what does in 
fact happen with all those people who have a low level of 
conscious tension, as for instance primitives. Among primi- 
tives, no special measures are required to bring up the un- 
conscious. Nowhere, really, are special measures required 
for this, because those people who are least aware of their 
unconscious side are the most influenced by it. But they are 
unconscious of what is happening. The secret participation 
of the unconscious is everywhere present without our hav- 
ing to search for it, but as it remains unconscious we never 
really know what is going on or what to expect. What we 
are searching for is a way to make conscious those contents 
which are about to influence our actions, so that the secret 
interference of the unconscious and its unpleasant conse- 
quences can be avoided. 

The reader will no doubt ask: why cannot the uncon- 
scious be left to its own devices? Those who have not al- 
ready had a few bad experiences in this respect will 
naturally see no reason to control the unconscious. But 
anyone with sufficiently bad experience will eagerly wel- 
come the bare possibility of doing so. Directedness is abso- 
lutely necessary for the conscious process, but as we have 
seen it entails an unavoidable one-sidedness. Since the 
psyche is a self-regulating system, just as the body is, the 
regulating counteraction will always develop in the uncon- 
scious. Were it not for the directedness of the conscious 
function, the counteracting influences of the unconscious 
could set in unhindered. It is just this directedness that ex- 
cludes them. This, of course, does not inhibit the counter- 

286 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

action, which goes on in spite of everything. Its regulating 
influence, however, is eliminated by critical attention and 
the directed will, because the counteraction as such seems 
incompatible with the conscious direction. To this extent 
the psyche of civilized man is no longer a self-regulating 
system but could rather be compared to a machine whose 
speed-regulation is so insensitive that it can continue to 
function to the point of self-injury, while on the other hand 
it is subject to the arbitrary manipulations of a one-sided 

Now it is a peculiarity of psychic functioning that when 
the unconscious counteraction is suppressed it loses its reg- 
ulating influence. It then begins to have an accelerating and 
intensifying effect on the conscious process. It is as though 
the counteraction had lost its regulating influence, and hence 
its energy, altogether; for a condition then arises in which 
not only no inhibiting counteraction takes place, but in 
which its energy seems to add itself to that of the con- 
scious direction. To begin with, this naturally facilitates the 
execution of the conscious intentions, but because they are 
unchecked, they may easily assert themselves at the cost of 
the whole. For instance, when someone makes a rather 
bold assertion and suppresses the counteraction, namely a 
well-placed doubt, he will insist on it all the more, to his 
own detriment. 

The ease with which the counteraction can be eliminated 
is proportional to the degree of dissociability of the psyche 
and leads to loss of instinct. This is characteristic of, as well 
as very necessary for, civilized man, since instincts in their 
original strength can render social adaptation almost impos- 
sible. It is not a real atrophy of instinct but, in most cases, 
only a relatively lasting product of education, and would 
never have struck such deep roots had it not served the 
interests of the individual. 

Apart from the everyday cases met with in practice, a 
good example of the suppression of the unconscious regu- 
lating influence can be found in Nietzsche's Zarathustra. 

The Transcendent Function : 287 

The discovery of the "higher" man, and also of the "ug- 
liest" man, expresses the regulating influence, for the 
"higher" men want to drag Zarathustra down to the collec- 
tive sphere of average humanity as it always has been, 
while the "ugliest" man is actually the personification of 
the counteraction. But the roaring lion of Zarathustra's 
moral conviction forces all these influences, above all the 
feeling of pity, back again into the cave of the unconscious. 
Thus the regulating influence is suppressed, but not the 
secret counteraction of the unconscious, which from now 
on becomes clearly noticeable in Nietzsche's writings. First 
he seeks his adversary in Wagner, whom he cannot forgive 
for Parsifal, but soon his whole wrath turns against Chris- 
tianity and in particular against St. Paul, who in some ways 
suffered a fate similar to Nietzsche's. As is well known, 
Nietzsche's psychosis first produced an identification v/ith 
the "Crucified Christ" and then with the dismembered 
Dionysus. With this catastrophe the counteraction at last 
broke through to the surface. 

Another example is the classic case of megalomania 
preserved for us in the fourth chapter of the Book of 
Daniel. Nebuchadnezzar at the height of his power had a 
dream which foretold disaster if he did not humble himself. 
Daniel interpreted the dream quite expertly, but without 
getting a hearing. Subsequent events showed that his inter- 
pretation was correct, for Nebuchadnezzar, after suppress- 
ing the unconscious regulating influence, fell victim to a 
psychosis that contained the very counteraction he had 
sought to escape: he, the lord of the earth, was degraded 
to an animal. 

An acquaintance of mine once told me a dream in which 
he stepped out into space from the top of a mountain. I 
explained to him something of the influence of the uncon- 
scious and warned him against dangerous mountaineering 
expeditions, for which he had a regular passion. But he 
laughed at such ideas. A few months later while climbing a 
mountain he actually did step off into space and was killed. 

288 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

Anyone who has seen these things happen over and over 
again in every conceivable shade of dramatic intensity is 
bound to ponder. He becomes aware how easy it is to over- 
look the regulating influences, and that he should endeav- 
our to pay attention to the unconscious regulation which is 
so necessary for our mental and physical health. Accord- 
ingly he will try to help himself by practising self-observa- 
tion and self-criticism. But mere self-observation and intel- 
lectual self-analysis are entirely inadequate as a means to 
establishing contact with the unconscious. Although no 
human being can be spared bad experiences, everyone 
shrinks from risking them, especially if he sees any way by 
which they might be circumvented. Knowledge of the regu- 
lating influences of the unconscious offers just such a possi- 
bility and actually does render much bad experience un- 
necessary. We can avoid a great many detours that are dis- 
tinguished by no particular attraction but only by tiresome 
conflicts. It is bad enough to make detours and painful mis- 
takes in unknown and unexplored territory, but to get lost 
in inhabited country on broad highways is merely exas- 
perating. What, then, are the means at our disposal of 
obtaining knowledge of the regulating factors? 

If there is no capacity to produce fantasies freely, we 
have to resort to artificial aid. The reason for invoking such 
aid is generally a depressed or disturbed state of mind for 
which no adequate cause can be found. Naturally the pa- 
tient can give any number of rationalistic reasons — the bad 
weather alone suffices as a reason. But none of them is 
really satisfying as an explanation, for a causal explanation 
of these states is usually satisfying only to an outsider, and 
then only up to a point. The outsider is content if his causal 
requirements are more or less satisfied; it is sufficient for 
him to know where the thing comes from; he does not feel 
the challenge which, for the patient, lies in the depression. 
The patient would like to know what it is all for and how 
to gain relief. In the intensity of the emotional disturbance 
itself lies the value, the energy which he should have at his 

The Transcendent Function : 289 

disposal in order to remedy the state of reduced adaptation. 
Nothing is achieved by repressing this state or devaluing it 

In order, therefore, to gain possession of the energy that 
is in the wrong place, he must make the emotional state the 
basis or starting point of the procedure. He must make him- 
self as conscious as possible of the mood he is in, sinking 
himself in it without reserve and noting down on paper all 
the fantasies and other associations that come up. Fantasy 
must be allowed the freest possible play, yet not in such a 
manner that it leaves the orbit of its object, namely the 
affect, by setting off a kind of "chain-reaction" association 
process. This "free association," as Freud called it, leads 
away from the object to all sorts of complexes, and one can 
never be sure that they relate to the affect and are not dis- 
placements which have appeared in its stead. Out of this 
preoccupation with the object there comes a more or less 
complete expression of the mood, which reproduces the 
content of the depression in some way, either concretely or 
symbolically. Since the depression was not manufactured by 
the conscious mind but is an unwelcome intrusion from the 
unconscious, the elaboration of the mood is, as it were, a 
picture of the contents and tendencies of the unconscious 
that were massed together in the depression. The whole 
procedure is a kind of enrichment and clarification of the 
affect, whereby the affect and its contents are brought 
nearer to consciousness, becoming at the same time more 
impressive and more understandable. This work by itself 
can have a favourable and vitalizing influence. At all 
events, it creates a new situation, since the previously un- 
related affect has become a more or less clear and articulate 
idea, thanks to the assistance and co-operation of the con- 
scious mind. This is the beginning of the transcendent func- 
tion, i.e., of the collaboration of conscious and unconscious 

The emotional disturbance can also be dealt with in an- 
other way, not by clarifying it intellectually but by giving it 

290 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

visible shape. Patients who possess some talent for drawing 
or painting can give expression to their mood by means of 
a picture. It is not important for the picture to be techni- 
cally or aesthetically satisfying, but merely for the fantasy 
to have free play and for the whole thing to be done as well 
as possible. In principle this procedure agrees with the one 
first described. Here too a product is created which is influ- 
enced by both conscious and unconscious, embodying the 
striving of the unconscious for the light and the striving of 
the conscious for substance. 

Often, however, we find cases where there is no tangible 
mood or depression at all, but just a general, dull discon- 
tent, a feeling of resistance to everything, a sort of boredom 
or vague disgust, an indefinable but excruciating emptiness. 
In these cases no definite starting point exists — it would 
first have to be created. Here a special introversion of libido 
is necessary, supported perhaps by favourable external con- 
ditions, such as complete rest, especially at night, when the 
libido has in any case a tendency to introversion. (" Tis 
night: now do all fountains speak louder. And my soul also 
is a bubbling fountain." 2 ) 

Critical attention must be eliminated. Visual types should 
concentrate on the expectation that an inner image will be 
produced. As a rule such a fantasy-picture will actually 
appear — perhaps hypnagogically — and should be carefully 
observed and noted down in writing. Audio-verbal types 
usually hear inner words, perhaps mere fragments of ap- 
parently meaningless sentences to begin with, which how- 
ever should be carefully noted down too. Others at such 
times simply hear their "other" voice. There are, indeed, 
not a few people who are well aware that they possess a 
sort of inner critic or judge who immediately comments on 
everything they say or do. Insane people hear this voice di- 
rectly as auditory hallucinations. But normal people too, 
if their inner life is fairly well developed, are able to repro- 

2 [Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathiistra, XXXI; Common translation, 
p. 156.— Editors of The Collected Works.] 

The Transcendent Function : 291 

duce this inaudible voice without difficulty, though as it is 
notoriously irritating and refractory it is almost always re- 
pressed. Such persons have little difficulty in procuring the 
unconscious material and thus laying the foundation of the 
transcendent function. 

There are others, again, who neither see nor hear any- 
thing inside themselves, but whose hands have the knack 
of giving expression to the contents of the unconscious. 
Such people can profitably work with plastic materials. 
Those who are able to express the unconscious by means of 
bodily movements are rather rare. The disadvantage that 
movements cannot easily be fixed in the mind must be met 
by making careful drawings of the movements afterwards, 
so that they shall not be lost to the memory. Still rarer, but 
equally valuable, is automatic writing, direct or with the 
planchette. This, too, yields useful results. 

We now come to the next question: what is to be done 
with the material obtained in one of the manners described. 
To this question there is no a priori answer; it is only when 
the conscious mind confronts the products of the uncon- 
scious that a provisional reaction will ensue which deter- 
mines the subsequent procedure. Practical experience alone 
can give us a clue. So far as my experience goes, there ap- 
pear to be two main tendencies. One is the way of creative 
formulation, the other the way of understanding. 

Where the principle of creative formulation predomi- 
nates, the material is continually varied and increased until 
a kind of condensation of motifs into more or less stereo- 
typed symbols takes place. These stimulate the creative fan- 
tasy and serve chiefly as aesthetic motifs. This tendency 
leads to the aesthetic problem of artistic formulation. 

Where, on the other hand, the principle of understand- 
ing predominates, the aesthetic aspect is oi relatively little 
interest and may occasionally even be felt as a hindrance. 
Instead, there is an intensive struggle to understand the 
meaning of the unconscious product. 

Whereas aesthetic formulation tends to concentrate on 

292 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

the formal aspect of the motif, an intuitive understanding 
often tries to catch the meaning from barely adequate hints 
in the material, without considering those elements which 
would come to light in a more careful formulation. 

Neither of these tendencies can be brought about by an 
arbitrary effort of will; they are far more the result of the 
peculiar make-up of the individual personality. Both have 
their typical dangers and may lead one astray. The danger 
of the aesthetic tendency is overvaluation of the formal or 
"artistic" worth of the fantasy-productions; the libido is 
diverted from the real goal of the transcendent function 
and sidetracked into purely aesthetic problems of artistic 
expression. The danger of wanting to understand the mean- 
ing is overvaluation of the content, which is subjected to 
intellectual analysis and interpretation, so that the essen- 
tially symbolic character of the product is lost. Up to a 
point these bypaths must be followed in order to satisfy 
aesthetic or intellectual requirements, whichever predomi- 
nate in the individual case. But the danger of both these 
bypaths is worth stressing, for, after a certain point of 
psychic development has been reached, the products of the 
unconscious are greatly overvalued precisely because they 
were boundlessly undervalued before. This undervaluation 
is one of the greatest obstacles in formulating the uncon- 
scious material. It reveals the collective standards by which 
anything individual is judged: nothing is considered good 
or beautiful that does not fit into the collective schema, 
though it is true that contemporary art is beginning to make 
compensatory efforts in this respect. What is lacking is not 
the collective recognition of the individual product but its 
subjective appreciation, the understanding of its meaning 
and value for the subject. This feeling of inferiority for 
one's own product is of course not the rule everywhere. 
Sometimes we find the exact opposite: a naive and uncriti- 
cal overvaluation coupled with the demand for collective 
recognition once the initial feeling of inferiority has been 
overcome. Conversely, an initial overvaluation can easily 

The Transcendent Function : 293 

turn into depreciatory scepticism. These erroneous judg- 
ments are due to the individual's unconsciousness and lack 
of self-reliance: either he is able to judge only by collective 
standards, or else, owing to ego-inflation, he loses his ca- 
pacity for judgment altogether. 

One tendency seems to be the regulating principle of the 
other; both are bound together in a compensatory relation- 
ship. Experience bears out this formula. So far as it is possi- 
ble at this stage to draw more general conclusions, we 
could say that aesthetic formulation needs understanding of 
the meaning, and understanding needs aesthetic formula- 
tion. The two supplement each other to form the tran- 
scendent function. 

The first steps along both paths follow the same princi- 
ple: consciousness puts its media of expression at the dis- 
posal of the unconscious content. It must not do more than 
this at first, so as not to exert undue influence. In giving 
the content form, the lead must be left as far as possible to 
the chance ideas and associations thrown up by the uncon- 
scious. This is naturally something of a setback for the 
conscious standpoint and is often felt as painful. It is not 
difficult to understand this when we remember how the 
contents of the unconscious usually present themselves: as 
things which are too weak by nature to cross the threshold, 
or as incompatible elements that were repressed for a va- 
riety of reasons. Mostly they are unwelcome, unexpected, 
irrational contents, disregard or repression of which seems 
altogether understandable. Only a small part of them has 
any unusual value, either from the collective or from the 
subjective standpoint. But contents that are collectively 
valueless may be exceedingly valuable when seen from the 
standpoint of the individual. This fact expresses itself in 
their affective tone, no matter whether the subject feels it 
as negative or positive. Society, too, is divided in its accept- 
ance of new and unknown ideas which obtrude their emo- 
tionality. The purpose of the initial procedure is to discover 
the feeling-toned contents, for in these cases we are always 

294 •' The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

dealing with situations where the one-sidedness of con- 
sciousness meets with the resistance of the instinctual 

The two ways do not divide until the aesthetic problem 
becomes decisive for the one type of person and the intel- 
lectual-moral problem for the other. The ideal case would 
be if these two aspects could exist side by side or rhythmi- 
cally succeed each other; that is, if there were an alterna- 
tion of creation and understanding. It hardly seems possible 
for the one to exist without the other, though it sometimes 
does happen in practice: the creative urge seizes possession 
of the object at the cost of its meaning, or the urge to 
understand overrides the necessity of giving it form. The 
unconscious contents want first of all to be seen clearly, 
which can only be done by giving them shape, and to be 
judged only when everything they have to say is tangibly 
present. It was for this reason that Freud got the dream- 
contents, as it were, to express themselves in the form of 
"free associations" before he began interpreting them. 

It does not suffice in all cases to elucidate only the con- 
ceptual context of a dream-content. Often it is necessary to 
clarify a vague content by giving it a visible form. This can 
be done by drawing, painting, or modelling. Often the 
hands know how to solve a riddle with which the intellect 
has wrestled in vain. By shaping it, one goes on dreaming 
the dream in greater detail in the waking state, and the 
initially incomprehensible, isolated event is integrated into 
the sphere of the total personality, even though it remains 
at first unconscious to the subject. Aesthetic formulation 
leaves it at that and gives up any idea of discovering a 
meaning. This sometimes leads patients to fancy themselves 
artists — misunderstood ones, naturally. The desire to under- 
stand, if it dispenses with careful formulation, starts with 
the chance idea or association and therefore lacks an ade- 
quate basis. It has better prospects of success if it begins 
only with the formulated product. The less the initial mate- 
rial is shaped and developed, the greater is the danger that 

The Transcendent Function : 295 

understanding will be governed not by the empirical facts 
but by theoretical and moral considerations. The kind of 
understanding with which we are concerned at this stage 
consists in a reconstruction of the meaning that seems to 
be immanent in the original "chance" idea. 

It is evident that such a procedure can legitimately take 
place only when there is a sufficient motive for it. Equally, 
the lead can be left to the unconscious only if it already 
contains the will to lead. This naturally happens only when 
the conscious mind finds itself in a critical situation. Once 
the unconscious content has been given form and the 
meaning of the formulation is understood, the question 
arises as to how the ego will relate to this position, and 
how the ego and the unconscious are to come to terms. This 
is the second and more important stage of the procedure, 
the bringing together of opposites for the production of a 
third: the transcendent function. At this stage it is no 
longer the unconscious that takes the lead, but the ego. 

We shall not define the individual ego here, but shall 
leave it in its banal reality as that continuous centre of 
consciousness whose presence has made itself felt since 
the days of childhood. It is confronted with a psychic 
product that owes its existence mainly to an unconscious 
process and is therefore in some degree opposed to the ego 
and its tendencies. 

This standpoint is essential in coming to terms with the 
unconscious. The position of the ego must be maintained 
as being of equal value to the counter-position of the un- 
conscious, and vice versa. This amounts to a very necessary 
warning: for just as the conscious mind of civilized man 
has a restrictive effect on the unconscious, so the rediscov- 
ered unconscious often has a really dangerous effect on the 
ego. In the same way that the ego suppressed the uncon- 
scious before, a liberated unconscious can thrust the ego 
aside and overwhelm it. There is a danger of the ego losing 
its head, so to speak, that it will not be able to defend itself 
against the pressure of affective factors — a situation often 

2g6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

encountered at the beginning of schizophrenia. This danger 
would not exist, or would not be so acute, if the process of 
having it out with the unconscious could somehow divest 
the affects of their dynamism. And this is what does in fact 
happen when the counter-position is aestheticized or intel- 
lectualized. But the confrontation with the unconscious 
must be a many-sided one, for the transcendent function is 
not a partial process running a conditioned course; it is a 
total and integral event in which all aspects are, or should 
be, included. The affect must therefore be deployed in its 
full strength. Aestheticization and intellectualization are 
excellent weapons against dangerous affects, but they 
should be used only when there is a vital threat, and not for 
the purpose of avoiding a necessary task. 

Thanks to the fundamental insight of Freud, we know 
that emotional factors must be given full consideration in 
the treatment of the neuroses. The personality as a whole 
must be taken seriously into account, and this applies to 
both parties, the patient as well as the analyst. How far 
the latter may hide behind the shield of theory remains a 
delicate question, to be left to his discretion. At all events, 
the treatment of neurosis is not a kind of psychological 
water-cure, but a renewal of the personality, working in 
every direction and penetrating every sphere of life. Com- 
ing to terms with the counter-position is a serious matter 
on which sometimes a very great deal depends. Taking the 
other side seriously is an essential prerequisite of the proc- 
ess, for only in that way can the regulating factors exert an 
influence on our actions. Taking it seriously does not mean 
taking it literally, but it does mean giving the unconscious 
credit, so that it has a chance to co-operate with conscious- 
ness instead of automatically disturbing it. 

Thus, in coming to terms with the unconscious, not only 
is the standpoint of the ego justified, but the unconscious 
is granted the same authority. The ego takes the lead, but 
the unconscious must be allowed to have its say too — 
audiatur et altera pars. 

The Transcendent Function : 2gj 

The way this can be done is best shown by those cases in 
which the "other" voice is more or less distinctly heard. For 
such people it is technically very simple to note down the 
"other 1 ' voice in writing and to answer its statements from 
the standpoint of the ego. It is exactly as if a dialogue were 
taking place between two human beings with equal rights, 
each of whom gives the other credit for a valid argument 
and considers it worth-while to modify the conflicting stand- 
points by means of thorough comparison and discussion or 
else to distinguish them clearly from one another. Since the 
way to agreement seldom stands open, in most cases a long 
conflict will have to be borne, demanding sacrifices from 
both sides. Such a rapprochement could just as well take 
place between patient and analyst, the role of devil's advo- 
cate easily falling to the latter. 

The present day shows with appalling clarity how little 
able people are to let the other man's argument count, al- 
though this capacity is a fundamental and indispensable 
condition for any human community. Everyone who pro- 
poses to come to terms with himself must reckon with this 
basic problem. For, to the degree that he does not admit the 
validity of the other person, he denies the "other" within 
himself the right to exist — and vice versa. The capacity for 
inner dialogue is a touchstone for outer objectivity. 

Simple as the process of coming to terms may be in the 
case of the inner dialogue, it is undoubtedly more com- 
plicated in other cases where only visual products are avail- 
able, speaking a language which is eloquent enough for 
one who understands it, but which seems like deaf-and- 
dumb language to one who does not. Faced with such prod- 
ucts, the ego must seize the initiative and ask: "How am I 
affected by this sign?" : * This Faustian question can call 
forth an illuminating answer. The more direct and natural 
the answer is, the more valuable it will be, for directness 
and naturalness guarantee a more or less total reaction. It 

a [Cf. Faust, Part I, translated by Philip Wayne (Harmondsworth, 
England, 1949), P- 46. — Editors or The Collected H'oiks.] 

2g8 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

is not absolutely necessary for the process of confrontation 
itself to become conscious in every detail. Very often a 
total reaction does not have at its disposal those theoretical 
assumptions, views, and concepts which would make clear 
apprehension possible. In such cases one must be content 
with the wordless but suggestive feelings which appear in 
their stead and are more valuable than clever talk. 

The shuttling to and fro of arguments and affects repre- 
sents the transcendent function of opposites. The confronta- 
tion of the two positions generates a tension charged with 
energy and creates a living, third thing — not a logical still- 
birth in accordance with the principle tertlum non datur 
but a movement out of the suspension between opposites, a 
living birth that leads to a new level of being, a new situ- 
ation. The transcendent function manifests itself as a qual- 
ity of conjoined opposites. So long as these are kept apart 
— naturally for the purpose of avoiding conflict — they do 
not function and remain inert. 

In whatever form the opposites appear in the individual, 
at bottom it is always a matter of a consciousness lost and 
obstinately stuck in one-sidedness, confronted with the 
image of instinctive wholeness and freedom. This presents 
a picture of the anthropoid and archaic man with, on the 
one hand, his supposedly uninhibited world of instinct and, 
on the other, his often misunderstood world of spiritual 
ideas, who, compensating and correcting our one-sidedness, 
emerges from the darkness and shows us how and where we 
have deviated from the basic pattern and crippled ourselves 

I must content myself here with a description of the out- 
ward forms and possibilities of the transcendent function. 
Another task of greater importance would be the descrip- 
tion o\ its contents. There is already a mass of material on 
this subject, but not all the difficulties in the way of exposi- 
tion have yet been overcome. A number of preparatory 
studies are still needed before the conceptual foundation 
is laid which would enable us to give a clear and intelligible 

The Transcendent Function : 299 

account of the contents of the transcendent function. I 
have unfortunately had the experience that the scientific 
public are not everywhere in a position to follow a purely 
psychological argument, since they either take it too per- 
sonally or are bedevilled by philosophical or intellectual 
prejudices. This renders any meaningful appreciation of the 
psychological factors quite impossible. If people take it 
personally their judgment is always subjective, and they 
declare everything to be impossible which seems not to 
apply in their case or which they prefer not to acknowledge. 
They are quite incapable of realizing that what is valid for 
them may not be valid at all for another person with a 
different psychology. We are still very far from possessing 
a general valid scheme of explanation in all cases. 

One of the greatest obstacles to psychological under- 
standing is the inquisitive desire to know whether the psy- 
chological factor adduced is "true" or "correct." If the de- 
scription of it is not erroneous or false, then the factor is 
valid in itself and proves its validity by its very existence. 
One might just as well ask if the duck-billed platypus is a 
"true" or "correct" invention of the Creator's will. Equally 
childish is the prejudice against the role which mythological 
assumptions play in the life of the psyche. Since they are 
not "true," it is argued, they have no place in a scientific 
explanation. But mythologems exist, even though their 
statements do not coincide with our incommensurable idea 
of "truth." 

As the process of coming to terms with the counter- 
position has a total character, nothing is excluded. Every- 
thing takes part in the discussion, even if only fragments 
become conscious. Consciousness is continually widened 
through the confrontation with previously unconscious con- 
tents, or — to be more accurate — could be widened if it 
took the trouble to integrate them. That is naturally not 
always the case. Even if there is sufficient intelligence to 
understand the procedure, there may yet be a lack of 
courage and self-confidence, or one is too lazy, mentally 

300 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 

and morally, or too cowardly, to make an effort. But where 
the necessary premises exist, the transcendent function not 
only forms a valuable addition to psychotherapeutic treat- 
ment, but gives the patient the inestimable advantage of 
assisting the analyst on his own resources, and of breaking 
a dependence which is often felt as humiliating. It is a way 
of attaining liberation by one's own efforts and of finding 
the courage to be oneself. 

On the Relation of Analytical 
Psychology to Poetry 1 

In spite of its difficulty, the task of discussing the relation 
of analytical psychology to poetry affords me a welcome 
opportunity to define my views on the much debated ques- 
tion of the relations between psychology and art in general. 
Although the two things cannot be compared, the close con- 
nections which undoubtedly exist between them call for in- 
vestigation. These connections arise from the fact that the 
practice of art is a psychological activity and, as such, can 
be approached from a psychological angle. Considered in 
this light, art, like any other human activity deriving from 
psychic motives, is a proper subject for psychology. This 
statement, however, involves a very definite limitation of 

1 From The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature. Collected Works, 
Vol. 15, pars. 97-132. [A lecture delivered to the Society for German 
Language and Literature, Zurich, May, 1922. First published as 
*'Ubcr die Bezichungcn dcr analytischen Psychologic zum dichteri- 
schen Kunslwcrk," Wissen und Leben (Zurich), XV: 19-20 (Sept., 
1922); reprinted in Seelenprobleme der Cegenwart (Zurich, 193'); 
translated by C. F. and H. G. Bayncs, as "On the Relation of 
Analytical Psychology to Poetic Ail," British Journal of Malical 
Psychology (London), 111: 3 (1925), reprinted in Contributions to 
Analytical Psychology (London and New York, 1928). — Lditors 
of The Collected Woiks.] 


302 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

the psychological viewpoint when we come to apply it in 
practice. Only that aspect of art which consists in the proc- 
ess of artistic creation can be a subject for psychological 
study, but not that which constitutes its essential nature. 
The question of what art is in itself can never be answered 
by the psychologist, but must be approached from the side 
of aesthetics. 

A similar distinction must be made in the realm of reli- 
gion. A psychological approach is permissible only in regard 
to the emotions and symbols which constitute the phe- 
nomenology of religion, but which do not touch upon its 
essential nature. If the essence of religion and art could be 
explained, then both of them would become mere subdivi- 
sions of psychology. This is not to say that such violations 
of their nature have not been attempted. But those who are 
guilty of them obviously forget that a similar fate might 
easily befall psychology, since its intrinsic value and specific 
quality would be destroyed if it were regarded as a mere 
activity of the brain, and were relegated along with the 
endocrine functions to a subdivision of physiology. This 
too, as we know, has been attempted. 

Art by its very nature is not science, and science by its 
very nature is not art; both these spheres of the mind have 
something in reserve that is peculiar to them and can be 
explained only in its own terms. Hence when we speak of 
the relation of psychology to art, we shall treat only of that 
aspect of art which can be submitted to psychological scru- 
tiny without violating its nature. Whatever the psychologist 
has to say about art will be confined to the process of artis- 
tic creation and has nothing to do with its innermost es- 
sence. He can no more explain this than the intellect can 
describe or even understand the nature of feeling. Indeed, 
art and science would not exist as separate entities at all if 
the fundamental difference between them had not long since 
forced itself on the mind. The fact that artistic, scientific, 
and religious propensities still slumber peacefully together 
in the small child, or that with primitives the beginnings of 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 303 

art, science, and religion coalesce in the undifferentiated 
chaos of the magical mentality, or that no trace of "mind" 
can be found in the natural instincts of animals — all this 
does nothing to prove the existence of a unifying principle 
which alone would justify a reduction of the one to the 
other. For if we go so far back into the history of the mind 
that the distinctions between its various fields of activity 
become altogether invisible, we do not reach an underlying 
principle of their unity, but merely an earlier, undifferenti- 
ated state in which no separate activities yet exist. But the 
elementary state is not an explanatory principle that would 
allow us to draw conclusions as to the nature of later, more 
highly developed states, even though they must necessarily 
derive from it. A scientific attitude will always tend to over- 
look the peculiar nature of these more differentiated states 
in favour of their causal derivation, and will endeavour to 
subordinate them to a general but more elementary prin- 

These theoretical reflections seem to me very much in 
place today, when we so often find that works of art, and 
particularly poetry, are interpreted precisely in this manner, 
by reducing them to more elementary states. Though the 
material he works with and its individual treatment can 
easily be traced back to the poet's personal relations with 
his parents, this does not enable us to understand his poetry. 
The same reduction can be made in all sorts of other fields, 
and not least in the case of pathological disturbances. Neu- 
roses and psychoses are likewise reducible to infantile rela- 
tions with the parents, and so are a man's good and bad 
habits, his beliefs, peculiarities, passions, interests, and so 
forth. It can hardly be supposed that all these very differ- 
ent things must have exactly the same explanation, for 
otherwise we would be driven to the conclusion that they 
actually are the same thing. If a work of art is explained 
in the same way as a neurosis, then either the work of art 
is a neurosis or a neurosis is a work of art. This explanation 
is all very well as a play on words, but sound common 

304 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

sense rebels against putting a work of art on the same level 
as a neurosis. An analyst might, in an extreme case, view a 
neurosis as a work of art through the lens of his profes- 
sional bias, but it would never occur to an intelligent lay- 
man to mistake a pathological phenomenon for art, in spite 
of the undeniable fact that a work of art arises from much 
the same psychological conditions as a neurosis. This is 
only natural, because certain of these conditions are present 
in every individual and, owing to the relative constancy of 
the human environment, are constantly the same, whether 
in the case of a nervous intellectual, a poet, or a normal 
human being. All have had parents, all have a father- or a 
mother-complex, all know about sex and therefore have 
certain common and typical human difficulties. One poet 
may be influenced more by his relation to his father, an- 
other by the tie to his mother, while a third shows unmis- 
takable traces of sexual repression in his poetry. Since all 
this can be said equally well not only of every neurotic but 
of every normal human being, nothing specific is gained for 
the judgment of a work of art. At most our knowledge of its 
psychological antecedents will have been broadened and 

The school of medical psychology inaugurated by Freud 
has undoubtedly encouraged the literary historian to bring 
certain peculiarities of a work of art into relation with the 
intimate, personal life of the poet. But this is nothing new 
in principle, for it has long been known that the scientific 
treatment of art will reveal the personal threads that the 
artist, intentionally or unintentionally, has woven into his 
work. The Freudian approach may, however, make possible 
a more exhaustive demonstration of the influences that 
reach back into earliest childhood and play their part in 
artistic creation. To this extent the psychoanalysis of art 
differs in no essential from the subtle psychological nuances 
of a penetrating literary analysis. The difference is at most 
a question of degree, though we may occasionally be sur- 
prised by indiscreet references to things which a rather 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 30s 

more delicate touch might have passed over if only for rea- 
sons of tact. This lack of delicacy seems to be a professional 
peculiarity of the medical psychologist, and the temptation 
to draw daring conclusions easily leads to flagrant abuses. 
A slight whiff of scandal often lends spice to a biography, 
but a little more becomes a nasty inquisitiveness — bad taste 
masquerading as science. Our interest is insidiously de- 
flected from the work of art and gets lost in the labyrinth 
of psychic determinants, the poet becomes a clinical case 
and, very likely, yet another addition to the curiosa of psy- 
chopathia sexualis. But this means that the psychoanalysis 
of art has turned aside from its proper objective and strayed 
into a province that is as broad as mankind, that is not in 
the least specific of the artist and has even less relevance 
to his art. 

This kind of analysis brings the work of art into the 
sphere of general human psychology, where many other 
things besides art have their origin. To explain art in these 
terms is just as great a platitude as the statement that 
"every artist is a narcissist." Every man who pursues his 
own goal is a "narcissist" — though one wonders how per- 
missible it is to give such wide currency to a term spe- 
cifically coined for the pathology of neurosis. The state- 
ment therefore amounts to nothing; it merely elicits the 
faint surprise of a bon mot. Since this kind of analysis is 
in no way concerned with the work of art itself, but strives 
like a mole to bury itself in the dirt as speedily as possible, 
it always ends up in the common earth that unites all man- 
kind. Hence its explanations have the same tedious mo- 
notony as the recitals which one daily hears in the consult- 

The reductive method of Freud is a purely medical one, 
and the treatment is directed at a pathological or other- 
wise unsuitable formation which has taken the place of the 
normal functioning. It must therefore be broken down, and 
the way cleared for healthy adaptation. In this case, reduc- 
tion to the common human foundation is altogether appro- 

306 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

priate. But when applied to a work of art it leads to the 
results I have described. It strips the work of art of its 
shimmering robes and exposes the nakedness and drabness 
of Homo sapiens, to which species the poet and artist also 
belong. The golden gleam of artistic creation — the original 
object of discussion — is extinguished as soon as we apply 
to it the same corrosive method which we use in analyzing 
the fantasies of hysteria. The results are no doubt very in- 
teresting and may perhaps have the same kind of scientific 
value as, for instance, a post-mortem examination of the 
brain of Nietzsche, which might conceivably show us the 
particular atypical form of paralysis from which he died. 
But what would this have to do with Zarathustral What- 
ever its subterranean background may have been, is it not 
a whole world in itself, beyond the human, all-too-human 
imperfections, beyond the world of migraine and cerebral 

I have spoken of Freud's reductive method but have not 
stated in what that method consists. It is essentially a medi- 
cal technique for investigating morbid psychic phenomena, 
and it is solely concerned with the ways and means of get- 
ting round or peering through the foreground of conscious- 
ness in order to reach the psychic background, or the un- 
conscious. It is based on the assumption that the neurotic 
patient represses certain psychic contents because they are 
morally incompatible with his conscious values. It follows 
that the repressed contents must have correspondingly 
negative traits — infantile-sexual, obscene, or even criminal 
— which make them unacceptable to consciousness. Since 
no man is perfect, everyone must possess such a back- 
ground whether he admits it or not. Hence it can always be 
exposed if only one uses the technique of interpretation 
worked out by Freud. 

In the short space of a lecture I cannot, of course, enter 
into the details of the technique. A few hints must suffice. 
The unconscious background does not remain inactive, but 
betrays itself by its characteristic effects on the contents of 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 307 

consciousness. For example, it produces fantasies of a pe- 
culiar nature, which can easily be interpreted as sexual 
images. Or it produces characteristic disturbances of the 
conscious processes, which again can be reduced to re- 
pressed contents. A very important source for knowledge 
of the unconscious contents is provided by dreams, since 
these are direct products of the activity of the unconscious. 
The essential thing in Freud's reductive method is to collect 
all the clues pointing to the unconscious background, and 
then, through the analysis and interpretation of this mate- 
rial, to reconstruct the elementary instinctual processes. 
Those conscious contents which give us a clue to the uncon- 
scious background are incorrectly called symbols by Freud. 
They are not true symbols, however, since according to his 
theory they have merely the role of signs or symptoms of 
the subliminal processes. The true symbol differs essentially 
from this, and should be understood as an expression of an 
intuitive idea that cannot yet be formulated in any other or 
better way. When Plato, for instance, puts the whole prob- 
lem of the theory of knowledge in his parable of the cave, 
or when Christ expresses the idea of the Kingdom of 
Heaven in parables, these are genuine and true symbols, 
that is, attempts to express something for which no verbal 
concept yet exists. If we were to interpret Plato's metaphor 
in Freudian terms we would naturally arrive at the uterus, 
and would have proved that even a mind like Plato's was 
still struck on a primitive level of infantile sexuality. But 
we would have completely overlooked what Plato actually 
created out of the primitive determinants of his philosophi- 
cal ideas; we would have missed the essential point and 
merely discovered that he had infantile-sexual fantasies like 
any other mortal. Such a discovery could be oi value only 
for a man who regarded Plato as superhuman, and who 
can now state with satisfaction that Plato too was an ordi- 
nary human being. But who would want to regard Plato as 
a god? Surely only one who is dominated by infantile fan- 
tasies and therefore possesses a neurotic mental it), lor 

jo8 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

him the reduction to common human truths is salutary on 
medical grounds, but this would have nothing whatever to 
do with the meaning of Plato's parable. 

I have purposely dwelt on the application of medical 
psychoanalysis to works of art because I want to empha- 
size that the psychoanalytic method is at the same time an 
essential part of the Freudian doctrine. Freud himself by 
his rigid dogmatism has ensured that the method and the 
doctrine — in themselves two very different things — are re- 
garded by the public as identical. Yet the method may be 
employed with beneficial results in medical cases without 
at the same time exalting it into a doctrine. And against this 
doctrine we are bound to raise vigorous objections. The 
assumptions it rests on are quite arbitrary. For example, 
neuroses are by no means exclusively caused by sexual 
repression, and the same holds true for psychoses. There is 
no foundation for saying that dreams merely contain re- 
pressed wishes whose moral incompatibility requires them 
to be disguised by a hypothetical dream-censor. The Freud- 
ian technique of interpretation, so far as it remains under 
the influence of its own one-sided and therefore erroneous 
hypotheses, displays a quite obvious bias. 

In order to do justice to a work of art, analytical psy- 
chology must rid itself entirely of medical prejudice; for a 
work of art is not a disease, and consequently requires a 
different approach from ihe medical one. A doctor natu- 
rally has to seek out the causes of a disease in order to pull 
it up by the roots, but just as naturally the psychologist 
must adopt exactly the opposite attitude towards a work of 
art. Instead of investigating its typically human determi- 
nants, he will inquire first of all into its meaning, and will 
concern himself with its determinants only in so far as 
they enable him to understand it more fully. Personal 
causes have as much or as little to do with a work of art 
as the soil with the plant that springs from it. We can cer- 
tainly learn to understand some of the plant's peculiarities 
by getting to know its habitat, and for the botanist this is an 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 309 

important part of his equipment. But nobody will maintain 
that everything essential has then been discovered about the 
plant itself. The personal orientation which the doctor needs 
when confronted with the question of aetiology in medicine 
is quite out of place in dealing with a work of art, just 
because a work of art is not a human bein<?, but is some- 
thing supra-personal. It is a thing and not a personality; 
hence it cannot be judged by personal criteria. Indeed, the 
special significance of a true work of art resides in the fact 
that it has escaped from the limitations of the personal and 
has soared beyond the personal concerns of its creator. 

I must confess from my own experience that it is not at 
all easy for a doctor to lay aside his professional bias when 
considering a work of art and look at it with a mind cleared 
of the current biological causality. But I have come to learn 
that although a psychology with a purely biological orienta- 
tion can explain a good deal about man in general, it can- 
not be applied to a work of art and still less to man as cre- 
ator. A purely causalistic psychology is only able to reduce 
every human individual to a member of the species Homo 
sapiens, since its range is limited to what is transmitted by 
heredity or derived from other sources. But a work of art 
is not transmitted or derived — it is a creative reorganization 
of those very conditions to which a causalistic psychology 
must always reduce it. The plant is not a mere product of 
the soil; it is a living, self-contained process which in es- 
sence has nothing to do with the character of the soil. In 
the same way, the meaning and individual quality of a work 
of art inhere within it and not in its extrinsic determinants. 
One might almost describe it as a living being that uses man 
only as a nutrient medium, employing his capacities accord- 
ing to its own laws and shaping itself to the fulfilment of its 
own creative purpose. 

But here I am anticipating somewhat, for I have in mind 
a particular type of art which I still have to introduce. Not 
every work o( art originates in the way 1 have just de- 
scribed. There arc literary works, prose as well as poetry, 

j io : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

that spring wholly from the author's intention to produce 
a particular result. He submits his material to a definite 
treatment with a definite aim in view; he adds to it and sub- 
tracts from it, emphasizing one effect, toning down an- 
other, laying on a touch of colour here, another there, all 
the time carefully considering the over-all result and paying 
strict attention to the laws of form and style. He exercises 
the keenest judgment and chooses his words with complete 
freedom. His material is entirely subordinated to his artis- 
tic purpose; he wants to express this and nothing else. He is 
wholly at one with the creative process, no matter whether 
he has deliberately made himself its spearhead, as it were, 
or whether it has made him its instrument so completely 
that he has lost all consciousness of this fact. In either case, 
the artist is so identified with his work that his intentions 
and his faculties are indistinguishable from the act of cre- 
ation itself. There is no need, I think, to give examples of 
this from the history of literature or from the testimony of 
the artists themselves. 

Nor need I cite examples of the other class of works 
which flow more or less complete and perfect from the au- 
thor's pen. They come as it were fully arrayed into the 
world, as Pallas Athene sprang from the head of Zeus. 
These works positively force themselves upon the author; 
his hand is seized, his pen writes things that his mind con- 
templates with amazement. The work brings with it its own 
form; anything he wants to add is rejected, and what he 
himself would like to reject is thrust back at him. While his 
conscious mind stands amazed and empty before this phe- 
nomenon, he is overwhelmed by a flood of thoughts and 
images which he never intended to create and which his 
own will could never have brought into being. Yet in spite 
of himself he is forced to admit that it is his own self speak- 
ing, his own inner nature revealing itself and uttering things 
which he would never have entrusted to his tongue. He 
can only obey the apparently alien impulse within him and 
follow where it leads, sensing that his work is greater than 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 311 

himself, and wields a power which is not his and which he 
cannot command. Here the artist is not identical with the 
process of creation; he is aware that he is subordinate to 
his work or stands outside it, as though he were a second 
person; or as though a person other than himself had fallen 
within the magic circle of an alien will. 

So when we discuss the psychology of art, we must bear 
in mind these two entirely different modes of creation, for 
much that is of the greatest importance in judging a work 
of art depends on this distinction. It is one that had been 
sensed earlier by Schiller, who as we know attempted to 
classify it in his concept of the sentimental and the naive. 
The psychologist would call "sentimental" art introverted 
and the "naive" kind extraverted. The introverted attitude 
is characterized by the subject's assertion of his conscious 
intentions and aims against the demands of the object, 
whereas the extraverted attitude is characterized by the sub- 
ject's subordination to the demands which the object makes 
upon him. In my view, Schiller's plays and most of his 
poems give one a good idea of the introverted attitude: the 
material is mastered by the conscious intentions of the 
poet. The extraverted attitude is illustrated by the second 
part of Faust: here the material is distinguished by its re- 
fractoriness. A still more striking example is Nietzsche's 
Zarathustra, where the author himself observed how "one 
became two." 

From what I have said, it will be apparent that a shift of 
psychological standpoint has taken place as soon as one 
speaks not of the poet as a person but of the creative proc- 
ess that moves him. When the focus of interest shifts to the 
latter, the poet comes into the picture only as a reacting 
subject. This is immediately evident in our second category 
of works, where the consciousness of the poet is not identi- 
cal with the creative process. But in works of the first cate- 
gory the opposite appears to hold true. Here the poet ap- 
pears to be the creative process itself, and to create of his 
own free will without the slightest feeling of compulsion. 

$12 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

He may even be fully convinced of his freedom of action 
and refuse to admit that his work could be anything else 
than the expression of his will and ability. 

Here we are faced with a question which we cannot 
answer from the testimony of the poets themselves. It is 
really a scientific problem that psychology alone can solve. 
As I hinted earlier, it might well be that the poet, while 
apparently creating out of himself and producing what he 
consciously intends, is nevertheless so carried away by the 
creative impulre that he is no longer aware of an "alien" 
will, just as the other type of poet is no longer aware of his 
own will speaKing to him in the apparently "alien" inspira- 
tion, although this is manifestly the voice of his own self. 
The poet's conviction that he is creating in absolute free- 
dom would then be an illusion: he fancies he is swimming, 
but in reality an unseen current sweeps him along. 

This is not by any means an academic question, but is 
supported by the evidence of analytical psychology. Re- 
searches have shown that there are all sorts of ways in 
which the conscious mind is not only influenced by the un- 
conscious but actually guided by it. Yet is there any evi- 
dence for the supposition that a poet, despite his self- 
awareness, may be taken captive by his work? The proof 
may be of two kinds, direct or indirect. Direct propf would 
be afforded by a poet who thinks he knows what he is say- 
ing but actually says more than he is aware of. Such cases 
are not uncommon. Indirect proof would be found in cases 
where behind the apparent free will of the poet there stands 
a higher imperative that renews its peremptory demands as 
soon as the poet voluntarily gives up his creative activity, 
or that produces psychic complications whenever his work 
has to be broken off against his will. 

Analysis of artists consistently shows not only the 
strength of the creative impulse arising from the uncon- 
scious, but also its capricious and wilful character. The 
biographies of great artists make it abundantly clear that 
the creative urge is often so imperious that it battens on 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 313 

their humanity and yokes everything to the service of the 
work, even at the cost of health and ordinary human happi- 
ness. The unborn work in the psyche of the artist is a force 
of nature that achieves its end either with tyrannical might 
or with the subtle cunning of nature herself, quite regard- 
less of the personal fate of the man who is its vehicle. The 
creative urge lives and grows in him like a tree in the earth 
from which it draws its nourishment. We would do well, 
therefore, to think of the creative process as a living thing 
implanted in the human psyche. In the language of analyti- 
cal psychology this living thing is an autonomous complex. 
It is a split-off portion of the psyche, which leads a life of 
its own outside the hierarchy of consciousness. Depending 
on its energy charge, it may appear either as a mere dis- 
turbance of conscious activities or as a supraordinate au- 
thority which can harness the ego to its purpose. Accord- 
ingly, the poet who identifies with the creative process 
would be one who acquiesces from the start when the un- 
conscious imperative begins to function. But the other poet, 
who feels the creative force as something alien, is one who 
for various reasons cannot acquiesce and is thus caught un- 

It might be expected that this difference in its origins 
would be perceptible in a work of art. For in the one case 
it is a conscious product shaped and designed to have the 
effect intended. But in the other we are dealing with an 
event originating in unconscious nature; with something 
that achieves its aim without the assistance of human con- 
sciousness, and often defies it by wilfully insisting on its 
own form and effect. We would therefore expect that works 
belonging to the first class would nowhere overstep the 
limits of comprehension, that their effect would be bounded 
by the author's intention and would not extend beyond it. 
But with works of the other class we would have to be pre- 
pared for something suprapersonal that transcends our 
understanding to the same degree that the author's con- 
sciousness was in abeyance during the process of creation. 

J 14 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

We would expect a strangeness of form and content, 
thoughts that can only be apprehended intuitively, a lan- 
guage pregnant with meanings, and images that are true 
symbols because they are the best possible expressions for 
something unknown — bridges thrown out towards an un- 
seen shore. 

These criteria are, by and large, corroborated in practice. 
Whenever we are confronted with a work that was con- 
sciously planned and with material that was consciously 
selected, we find that it agrees with the first class of quali- 
ties, and in the other case with the second. The example we 
gave of Schiller's plays, on the one hand, and Faust II on 
the other, or better still Zarathustra, is an illustration of 
this. But I would not undertake to place the work of an 
unknown poet in either of these categories without first 
having examined rather closely his personal relations with 
his work. It is not enough to know whether the poet be- 
longs to the introverted or to the extraverted type, since it 
is possible for either type to work with an introverted 
attitude at one time, and an extraverted attitude at another. 
This is particularly noticeable in the difference between 
Schiller's plays and his philosophical writings, between 
Goethe's perfectly formed poems and the obvious struggle 
with his material in Faust II, and between Nietzsche's well- 
turned aphorisms and the rushing torrent of Zarathustra. 
The same poet can adopt different attitudes to his work at 
different times, and on this depends the standard we have 
to apply. 

The question, as we now see, is exceedingly complicated, 
and the complication grows even worse when we consider 
the case of the poet who identifies with the creative process. 
For should it turn out that the apparently conscious and 
purposeful manner of composition is a subjective illusion 
of the poet, then his work would possess symbolic qualities 
that are outside the range of his consciousness. They would 
only be more difficult to detect, because the reader as well 
would be unable to get beyond the bounds of the poet's 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry .3/5 

consciousness which arc fixed by the spirit of the time. 
There is no Archimedean point outside his world by which 
he could lift his time-bound consciousness off its hinges and 
recognize the symbols hidden in the poet's work. For a 
symbol is the intimation of a meaning beyond the level of 
our present powers of comprehension. 

I raise this question only because I do not want my 
typological classification to limit the possible significance 
of works of art which apparently mean no more than what 
they say. But we have often found that a poet who has 
gone out of fashion is suddenly rediscovered. This happens 
when our conscious development has reached a higher level 
from which the poet can tell us something new. It was al- 
ways present in his work but was hidden in a symbol, and 
only a renewal of the spirit of the time permits us to read 
its meaning. It needed to be looked at with fresher eyes, 
for the old ones could see in it only what they were ac- 
customed to see. Experiences of this kind should make us 
cautious, as they bear out my earlier argument. But works 
that are openly symbolic do not require this subtle ap- 
proach; their pregnant language cries out at us that they 
mean more than they say. We can put our finger on the 
symbol at once, even though we may not be able to unrid- 
dle its meaning to our entire satisfaction. A symbol remains 
a perpetual challenge to our thoughts and feelings. That 
probably explains why a symbolic work is so stimulating, 
why it grips us so intensely, but also why it seldom affords 
us a purely aesthetic enjoyment. A work that is manifestly 
not symbolic appeals much more to our aesthetic sensibility 
because it is complete in itself and fulfils its purpose. 

What then, you may ask, can analytical psychology con- 
tribute to our fundamental problem, which is the m\slery 
of artistic creation? All that we have said so far has to do 
only with the psychological phenomenology of art. Since 
nobody can penetrate to the heart of nature, you will not 
expect psychology to do the impossible and offer a valid 
explanation of the secret of creativity. Like every other 

316 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

science, psychology has only a modest contribution to make 
towards a deeper understanding of the phenomena of life, 
and is no nearer than its sister sciences to absolute knowl- 

We have talked so much about the meaning of works of 
art that one can hardly suppress a doubt as to whether art 
really "means" anything at all. Perhaps art has no "mean- 
ing," at least not as we understand meaning. Perhaps it is 
like nature, which simply is and "means" nothing beyond 
that. Is "meaning" necessarily more than mere interpreta- 
tion — an interpretation secreted into something by an in- 
tellect hungry for meaning? Art, it has been said, is beauty, 
and "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever." It needs no mean- 
ing, for meaning has nothing to do with art. Within the 
sphere of art, I must accept the truth of this statement. But 
when I speak of the relation of psychology to art we are 
outside its sphere, and it is impossible for us not to specu- 
late. We must interpret, we must find meanings in things, 
otherwise we would be quite unable to think about them. 
We have to break down life and events, which are self-con- 
tained processes, into meanings, images, concepts, well 
knowing that in doing so we are getting further away from 
the living mystery. As long as we ourselves are caught up 
in the process of creation, we neither see nor understand; 
indeed we ought not to understand, for nothing is more in- 
jurious to immediate experience than cognition. But for the 
purpose of cognitive understanding we must detach our- 
selves from the creative process and look at it from the out- 
side; only then does it become an image that expresses 
what we are bound to call "meaning." What was a mere 
phenomenon before becomes something that in association 
with other phenomena has meaning, that has a definite role 
to play r serves certain ends, and exerts meaningful effects. 
And when we have seen all this we get the feeling of having 
understood and explained something. In this way we meet 
the demands of science. 

When, a little earlier, we spoke of a work of art as a 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 317 

tree growing out of the nourishing soil, we might equally 
well have compared it to a child growing in the womb. But 
as all comparisons are lame, let us stick to the more precise 
terminology of science. You will remember that I described 
the nascent work in the psyche of the artist as an auton- 
omous complex. By this we mean a psychic formation that 
remains subliminal until its energy-charge is sufficient to 
carry it over the threshold into consciousness. Its associa- 
tion with consciousness does not mean that it is assimilated, 
only that it is perceived; but it is not subject to conscious 
control, and can be neither inhibited nor voluntarily re- 
produced. Therein lies the autonomy of the complex: it ap- 
pears and disappears in accordance with its own inherent 
tendencies, independently of the conscious will. The crea- 
tive complex shares this peculiarity with every other auton- 
omous complex. In this respect it offers an analogy with 
pathological processes, since these too are characterized by 
the presence of autonomous complexes, particularly in the 
case of mental disturbances. The divine frenzy of the artist 
comes perilously close to a pathological state, though the 
two things are not identical. The tertium comparationis is 
the autonomous complex. But the presence of autonomous 
complexes is not in itself pathological, since normal people, 
too, fall temporarily or permanently under their domina- 
tion. This fact is simply one of the normal peculiarities of 
the psyche, and for a man to be unaware of the existence 
of an autonomous complex merely betrays a high degree of 
unconsciousness. Every typical attitude that is to some 
extent differentiated shows a tendency to become an auton- 
omous complex, and in most cases it actually does. Again, 
every instinct has more or less the character of an autono- 
mous complex. In itself, therefore, an autonomous complex 
has nothing morbid about it; only when its manifestations 
are frequent and disturbing is it a symptom of illness. 

How does an autonomous complex arise? For reasons 
which we cannot go into here, a hitherto unconscious por- 
tion of the psyche is thrown into activity, and gains ground 

318 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

by activating the adjacent areas of association. The energy 
needed for this is naturally drawn from consciousness — un- 
less the latter happens to identify with the complex. But 
where this does not occur, the drain of energy produces 
what Janet calls an abaissement du niveau mental. The in- 
tensity of conscious interests and activities gradually dimin- 
ishes, leading either to apathy — a condition very common 
with artists — or to a regressive development of the con- 
scious functions, that is, they revert to an infantile and 
archaic level and undergo something like a degeneration. 
The "inferior parts of the functions," as Janet calls them, 
push to the fore; the instinctual side of the personality 
prevails over the ethical, the infantile over the mature, and 
the unadapted over the adapted. This too is something we 
see in the lives of many artists. The autonomous complex 
thus develops by using the energy that has been withdrawn 
from the conscious control of the personality. 

But in what does an autonomous creative complex con- 
sist? Of this we can know next to nothing so long as the 
artist's work affords us no insight into its foundations. The 
work presents us with a finished picture, and this picture 
is amenable to analysis only to the extent that we can rec- 
ognize it as a symbol. But if we are unable to discover any 
symbolic value in it, we have merely established that, so 
far as we are concerned, it means no more than what it 
says, or to put it another way, that it is no more than what 
it seems to be. I use the word "seems" because our own 
bias may prevent a deeper appreciation of it. At any rate 
we can find no incentive and no starting-point for an anal- 
ysis. But in the case of a symbolic work we should remem- 
ber the dictum of Gerhard Hauptmann: "Poetry evokes 
out of words the resonance of the primordial word." The 
question we should ask, therefore, is: "What primordial 
image lies behind the imagery of art?" 

This question needs a little elucidation. I am assuming 
that the work of art we propose to analyze, as well as being 
symbolic, has its source not in the personal unconscious of 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 319 

the poet, but in a sphere of unconscious mythology whose 
primordial images are the common heritage of mankind. I 
have called this sphere the collective unconscious, to dis- 
tinguish it from the personal unconscious. The latter I 
regard as the sum total of all those psychic processes and 
contents which are capable of becoming conscious and 
often do, but are then suppressed because of their incom- 
patibility and kept subliminal. Art receives tributaries from 
this sphere too, but muddy ones; and their predominance, 
far from making a work of art a symbol, merely turns it 
into a symptom. We can leave this kind of art without in- 
jury and without regret to the purgative methods employed 
by Freud. 

In contrast to the personal unconscious, which is a rela- 
tively thin layer immediately below the threshold of con- 
sciousness, the collective unconscious shows no tendency 
to become conscious under normal conditions, nor can it 
be brought back to recollection by any analytical tech- 
nique, since it was never repressed or forgotten. The collec- 
tive unconscious is not to be thought of as a self-subsistent 
entity; it is no more than a potentiality handed down to us 
from primordial times in the specific form of mnemonic 
images or inherited in the anatomical structure of the brain. 
There are no inborn ideas, but there are inborn possibilities 
of ideas that set bounds to even the boldest fantasy and 
keep our fantasy activity within certain categories: a priori 
ideas, as it were, the existence of which cannot be ascer- 
tained except from their effects. They appear only in the 
shaped material of art as the regulative principles that 
shape it; that is to say, only by inferences drawn from the 
finished work can we reconstruct the age-old original of the 
primordial image. 

The primordial image, or archetype, is a figure — be it a 
daemon, a human being, or a process — that constantly re- 
curs in the course of history and appears wherever creative 
fantasy is freely expressed. Essentially, therefore, it is a 
mythological figure. When we examine these images more 

320 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

closely, we find that they give form to countless typical ex- 
periences of our ancestors. They are, so to speak, the 
psychic residua of innumerable experiences of the same 
type. They present a picture of psychic life in the average, 
divided up and projected into the manifold figures of the 
mythological pantheon. But the mythological figures are 
themselves products of creative fantasy and still have to be 
translated into conceptual language. Only the beginnings 
of such a language exist, but once the necessary concepts 
are created they could give us an abstract, scientific under- 
standing of the unconscious processes that lie at the roots 
of the primordial images. In each of these images there is 
a little piece of human psychology and human fate, a rem- 
nant of the joys and sorrows that have been repeated 
countless times in our ancestral history, and on the average 
follow ever the same course. It is like a deeply graven river- 
bed in the psyche, in which the waters of life, instead of 
flowing along as before in a broad but shallow stream, sud- 
denly swell into a mighty river. This happens whenever that 
particular set of circumstances is encountered which over 
long periods of time has helped to lay down the primor- 
dial image. 

The moment when this mythological situation reappears 
is always characterized by a peculiar emotional intensity; 
it is as though chords in us were struck that had never 
resounded before, or as though forces whose existence we 
never suspected were unloosed. What makes the struggle 
for adaptation so laborious is the fact that we have con- 
stantly to be dealing with individual and atypical situations. 
So it is not surprising that when an archetypal situation 
occurs we suddenly feel an extraordinary sense of release, 
as though transported, or caught up by an overwhelming 
power. At such moments we are no longer individuals, but 
the race; the voice of all mankind resounds in us. The in- 
dividual man cannot use his powers to the full unless he is 
aided by one of those collective representations we call 
ideals, which releases all the hidden forces of instinct that 

Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 321 

are inaccessible to his conscious will. The most effective 
ideals are always fairly obvious variants of an archetype, 
as is evident from the fact that they lend themselves to 
allegory. The ideal of the "mother country/ 1 for instance, 
is an obvious allegory of the mother, as is the "fatherland" 
of the father. Its power to stir us docs not derive from the 
allegory, but from the symbolical value of our native land. 
The archetype here is the participation mystique of prim- 
itive man with the soil on which he dwells, and which con- 
tains the spirits of his ancestors. 

The impact of an archetype, whether it takes the form 
of immediate experience or is expressed through the spoken 
word, stirs us because it summons up a voice that is 
stronger than our own. Whoever speaks in primordial 
images speaks with a thousand voices; he enthrals and 
overpowers, while at the same time he lifts the idea he is 
seeking to express out of the occasional and the transitory 
into the realm of the ever-enduring. He transmutes our 
personal destiny into the destiny of mankind, and evokes 
in us all those beneficent forces that ever and anon have 
enabled humanity to find a refuge from every peril and to 
outlive the longest night. 

That is the secret of great art, and of its effect upon us. 
The creative process, so far as we are able to follow it at 
all, consists in the unconscious activation of an archetypal 
image, and in elaborating and shaping this image into the 
finished work. By giving it shape, the artist translates it 
into the language of the present, and so makes it possible 
for us to find our way back to the deepest springs of life. 
Therein lies the social significance of art: it is constantly 
at work educating the spirit of the age, conjuring up the 
forms in which the age is most lacking. The unsatisfied 
yearning of the artist reaches back to the primordial image 
in the unconscious which is best fitted to compensate the 
inadequacy and one-sidedness of the present. The artist 
seizes on this image, and in raising it from deepest uncon- 
sciousness he brings it into relation with conscious values, 

322 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature 

thereby transforming it until it can be accepted by the 
minds of his contemporaries according to their powers. 

Peoples and times, like individuals, have their own char- 
acteristic tendencies and attitudes. The very word "atti- 
tude 1 ' betrays the necessary bias that every marked tend- 
ency entails. Direction implies exclusion, and exclusion 
means that very many psychic elements that could play 
their part in life are denied the right to exist because they 
are incompatible with the general attitude. The normal man 
can follow the general trend without injury to himself; but 
the man who takes to the back streets and alleys because 
he cannot endure the broad highway will be the first to dis- 
cover the psychic elements that are waiting to play their 
part in the life of the collective. Here the artist's relative 
lack of adaptation turns out to his advantage; it enables 
him to follow his own yearnings far from the beaten path, 
and to discover what it is that would meet the unconscious 
needs of his age. Thus, just as the one-sidedness of the in- 
dividual's conscious attitude is corrected by reactions from 
the unconscious, so art represents a process of self-regula- 
tion in the life of nations and epochs. 

I am aware that in this lecture I have only been able to 
sketch out my views in the barest outline. But I hope that 
what I have been obliged to omit, that is to say their prac- 
tical application to poetic works of art, has been furnished 
by your own thoughts, thus giving flesh and blood to my 
abstract intellectual frame. 


Individual Dream Symbolism 
in Relation (o Alchemy 1 

A Study of the Unconscious Processes 
at Work in Dreams 

. . . facilis descensus A verno; 
nodes alque dies patet atri iauiia Ditis; 
sed revocare graduni superascjue evadere ad auras, hoc 
opus, hie labor esl. , . . 

— Virgil, Aeneid, VI, 126-29 

. , . easy is the descent to Avernus: night and day the 

door of gloomy Dis stands open; but to recall thy steps 

and pass out to the upper air, this is the task, this the toil! 

— Translated by H. R. Fail dough 

'Volume 12 of Professor Jung's Collected Works, of which this 
article is Fart II, is a translation, wiih minor alterations made at 
the instance of the author, of Psychologic and Alchemic (Zurich, 
1944; 2nd cd., revised, 1952). Thai work was based on two lectures, 
"Traumsymbole des lndi\ iduationsprozesscs," F.ranos-Jahrhuch 1935 
(Zurich, 1936), and "Die Erlosungsvorstellungen in der Alchemic," 
Eranos-Jahrhuch 1936 (Zurich, 1937). These were translated by 
Stanley Dell and published in The Integration of the Pa u>naluy 
(New York, 1939; London, 1940) under the titles "Dream Sym- 
bols of the Process of Individuation" and "The Idea of Redemp- 
tion in Alchemy." Professor Jung then considerably expanded 
them and added an introduction, in which he set out his whole 
position particularly in relation to religion. These three pails to- 
gether wiih a short epilogue make up the Swiss volume, of which 
Collected Works, Vol. 12, is a translation. — J.C. 


324 : Psychology and Alchemy 

1. Introduction 

I. The Material 

The symbols of the process of individuation that appear in 
dreams are images of an archetypal nature which depict 
the centralizing process or the production of a new centre 
of personality. A general idea of this process may be got 
from my essay, "The Relations between the Ego and the 
Unconscious." 2 For certain reasons mentioned there I call 
this centre the "self," which should be understood as the 
totality of the psyche. The self is not only the centre, but 
also the whole circumference which embraces both con- 
scious and unconscious; it is the centre of this totality, just 
as the ego is the centre of consciousness. 

The symbols now under consideration are not concerned 
with the manifold stages and transformations of the indi- 
viduation process, but with the images that refer directly 
and exclusively to the new centre as it comes into con- 
sciousness. These images belong to a definite category 
which I call mandala symbolism. In The Secret of the 
Golden Flower, published in collaboration with Richard 
Wilhelm, I have described this symbolism in some detail. 
In the present study I should like to put before you an in- 
dividual series of such symbols in chronological order. The 
material consists of over a thousand dreams and visual im- 
pressions coming from a young man of excellent scientific 
education/* For the purposes of this study I have worked 
on the first four hundred dreams and visions, which covered 
a period of nearly ten months. In order to avoid all per- 
sonal influence I asked one of my pupils, a woman doctor, 

2 See supra, pp. 70-138. 

3 1 must emphasize that this education was not historical, philo- 
logical, archaeological, or ethnological. Any references to material 
derived from these fields came unconsciously to the dreamer. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 325 

who was then a beginner, to undertake the observation of 
the process. This went on for five months. The dreamer 
then continued his observations alone for three months. 
Except for a short interview at the very beginning, before 
the commencement of the observation, I did not see the 
dreamer at all during the first eight months. Thus it hap- 
pened that 355 of the dreams were dreamed away from 
any personal contact with myself. Only the last forty-five 
occurred under my observation. No interpretations worth 
mentioning were then attempted because the dreamer, 
owing to his excellent scientific training and ability, did 
not require any assistance. Hence conditions were really 
ideal for unprejudiced observation and recording. 

First of all, then, I shall present extracts from the twenty- 
two initial dreams in order to show how the mandala sym- 
bolism makes a very early appearance and is embedded in 
the rest of the dream material. Later on I shall pick out in 
chronological order the dreams that refer specifically to 
the mandala. 4 

With few exceptions all the dreams have been abbrevi- 
ated, either by extracting the part that carries the main 
thought or by condensing the whole text to essentials. This 
simplifying procedure has not only curtailed their length 
but has also removed personal allusions and complications, 
as was necessary for reasons of discretion. Despite this 
somewhat doubtful interference I have, to the best of my 
knowledge and scrupulosity, avoided any arbitrary distor- 
tion of meaning. The same considerations had also to apply 
to my own interpretation, so that certain passages in the 
dreams may appear to have been overlooked. Had I not 
made this sacrifice and kept the material absolutely com- 
plete, I should not have been in a position to publish this 
series, which in my opinion could hardly be surpassed in 
intelligence, clarity, and consistency. It therefore gives me 

* "Mandala" (Sanskrit) means "circle," also "magic circle." lis 
symbolism includes — to mention only the most important forms — 
all concentrically arranged figures, round or square patterns \Mth 
a centre, and radial or spherical arrangements. 

326 : Psychology and Alchemy 

great pleasure to express my sincere gratitude here and 
now to the "author" for the service he has rendered to 

II. The Method 

In my writings and lectures I have always insisted that 
we must give up all preconceived opinions when it comes 
to the analysis and interpretation of the objective psyche, 5 
in other words the "unconscious." We do not yet possess a 
general theory of dreams that would enable us to use a 
deductive method with impunity, any more than we possess 
a general theory of consciousness from which we can draw 
deductive conclusions. The manifestations of the subjective 
psyche, or consciousness, can be predicted to only the 
smallest degree, and there is no theoretical argument to 
prove beyond doubt that any causal connection necessarily 
exists between them. On the contrary, we have to reckon 
with a high percentage of arbitrariness and "chance" in 
the complex actions and reactions of the conscious mind. 
Similarly there is no empirical, still less a theoretical, rea- 
son to assume that the same does not apply to the mani- 
festations of the unconscious. The latter are just as mani- 
fold, unpredictable, and arbitrary as the former and must 
therefore be subjected to as many different ways of ap- 
proach. In the case of conscious utterances we are in the 
fortunate position of being directly addressed and presented 
with a content whose purpose we can recognize; but with 
"unconscious" manifestations there is no directed or 
adapted language in our sense of the word — there is merely 
a psychic phenomenon that would appear to have only the 
loosest connections with conscious contents. If the expres- 

s For this concept see Jung, "Basic Postulates of Analytical Psy- 
chology" {Collected Works, Vol. 8), and Toni Wolff, "Einfuhrung 
in die Grundlagen der komplexen Psychologies in Studien zu 
C. G.Jung's Psychologie (Zurich, 1959), pp. 34ff. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 327 

sions of the conscious mind are incomprehensible we can 
always ask what they mean. But the objective psyche is 
something alien even to the conscious mind through which 
it expresses itself. We are therefore obliged to adopt the 
method we would use in deciphering a fragmentary text or 
one containing unknown words: we examine the context. 
The meaning of the unknown word may become evident 
when we compare a series of passages in which it occurs. 
The psychological context of dream-contents consists in 
the web of associations in which the dream is naturally 
embedded. Theoretically we can never know anything in 
advance about this web, but in practice it is sometimes 
possible, granted long enough experience. Even so, careful 
analysis will never rely too much on technical rules; the 
danger of deception and suggestion is too great. In the 
analysis of isolated dreams above all, this kind of knowing 
in advance and making assumptions on the grounds of prac- 
tical expectation or general probability is positively wrong. 
It should therefore be an absolute rule to assume that every 
dream, and every part of a dream, is unknown at the out- 
set, and to attempt an interpretation only after carefully 
taking up the context. We can then apply the meaning we 
have thus discovered to the text of the dream itself and see 
whether this yields a fluent reading, or rather whether a 
satisfying meaning emerges. But in no circumstances may 
we anticipate that this meaning will fit in with any of our 
subjective expectations; for quite possibly, indeed very fre- 
quently, the dream is saying something surprisingly differ- 
ent from what we would expect. As a matter of fact, if the 
meaning we find in the dream happens to coincide with our 
expectations, that is a reason for suspicion; for as a rule 
the standpoint of the unconscious is complementary or 
compensatory 6 to consciousness and thus unexpectedly "dif- 
ferent." I would not deny the possibility of parallel dreams, 
i.e., dreams whose meaning coincides with or supports the 

e I intentionally omit an analysis of the words "complementary** 
and "compensatory," as it would lead us too far afield. 

j 28 ; Psychology and Alchemy 

conscious attitude, but, in my experience at least, these are 
rather rare. 

Now, the method I adopt in the present study seems to 
run directly counter to this basic principle of dream inter- 
pretation. It looks as if the dreams were being interpreted 
without the least regard for the context. And in fact I 
have not taken up the context at all, seeing that the dreams 
in this series were not dreamed (as mentioned above) un- 
der my observation. I proceed rather as if I had had the 
dreams myself and were therefore in a position to supply 
the context. 

This procedure, if applied to isolated dreams of some- 
one unknown to me personally, would indeed be a gross 
technical blunder. But here we are not dealing with isolated 
dreams; they form a coherent series in the course of which 
the meaning gradually unfolds more or less of its own ac- 
cord. The series is the context which the dreamer himself 
supplies. It is as if not one text but many lay before us, 
throwing light from all sides on the unknown terms, so that 
a reading of all the texts is sufficient to elucidate the diffi- 
cult passages in each individual one. Moreover, in the third 
chapter we are concerned with a definite archetype — the 
mandala — that has long been known to us from other 
sources, and this considerably facilitates the interpretation. 
Of course the interpretation of each individual passage is 
bound to be largely conjecture, but the series as a whole 
gives us all the clues we need to correct any possible errors 
in the preceding passages. 

It goes without saying that while the dreamer was under 
the observation of my pupil he knew nothing of these inter- 
pretations and was therefore quite unprejudiced by any- 
body else's opinion. Moreover I hold the view, based on 
wide experience, that the possibility and danger of prejudg- 
ment are exaggerated. Experience shows that the objective 
psyche is independent in the highest degree. Were it not so, 
it could not carry out its most characteristic function: the 
compensation of the conscious mind. The conscious mind 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 329 

allows itself to be trained like a parrot, but the unconscious 
does not — which is why St. Augustine thanked God for not 
making him responsible for his dreams. The unconscious is 
an autonomous psychic entity; any efforts to drill it are 
only apparently successful, and moreover are harmful to 
consciousness. It is and remains beyond the reach of sub- 
jective arbitrary control, in a realm where nature and her 
secrets can be neither improved upon nor perverted, where 
we can listen but may not meddle. 

2. The Initial Dreams 

1. Dream: 

The dreamer is at a social gathering. On leaving, he puts 
on a stranger's hat instead of his own. 

The hat, as a covering for the head, has the general sense 
of something that epitomizes the head. Just as in summing 
up we bring ideas "under one head" (unter einen Hut), so 
the hat, as a sort of leading idea, covers the whole person- 
ality and imparts its own significance to it. Coronation en- 
dows the ruler with the divine nature of the sun, the doc- 
tor's hood bestows the dignity of a scholar, and a stranger's 
hat imparts a strange personality. Meyrink uses this theme 
in his novel The Golem, where the hero puts on the hat of 
Athanasius Pernath and, as a result, becomes involved in a 
strange experience. It is clear enough in The Golem that it 
is the unconscious which entangles the hero in fantastic ad- 
ventures. Let us stress at once the significance of the Golem 
parallel and assume that the hat in the dream is the hat of 
an Athanasius, an immortal, a being beyond time, the uni- 
versal and everlasting man as distinct from the ephemeral 
and "accidental" mortal man. Encircling the head, the hat 
is round like the sun-disc of a crown and therefore contains 
the first allusion to the mandala. We shall find the attribute 
of eternal duration confirmed in the ninth mandala dream 
while the mandala character of the hat comes out in the 

5J0 ; Psychology and Alchemy 

thirty-fifth mandala dream. As a general result of the ex- 
change of hats we may expect a development similar to that 
in The Golem: an emergence of the unconscious. The un- 
conscious with its figures is already standing like a shadow 
behind the dreamer and pushing its way into consciousness, 

2. Dream: 

The dreamer is going on a railway journey, and by stand- 
ing in front of the window, he blocks the view for his fel- 
low passengers. He must get out of their way. 

The process is beginning to move, and the dreamer dis- 
covers that he is keeping the light from those who stand 
behind him, namely the unconscious components of his 
personality. We have no eyes behind us; consequently "be- 
hind" is the region of the unseen, the unconscious. If the 
dreamer will only stop blocking the window (conscious- 
ness), the unconscious content will become conscious. 

3. Hypnagogic visual impression: 

By the sea shore. The sea breaks into the land, flooding 
everything. Then the dreamer is sitting on a lonely island. 

The sea is the symbol of the collective unconscious, be- 
cause unfathomed depths lie concealed beneath its reflect- 
ing surface. 7 Those who stand behind, the shadowy person- 
ifications of the unconscious, have burst into the terra firma 
of consciousness like a flood. Such invasions have some- 
thing uncanny about them because they are irrational and 
incomprehensible to the person concerned. They bring 
about a momentous alteration of his personality since they 
immediately constitute a painful personal secret which 
alienates and isolates him from his surroundings. It is 

7 The sea is a favourite place for the birth of visions (i.e., in- 
vasions by unconscious contents). Thus the great vision of the 
eagle in II Esdras n : 1 rises out of the sea, and the vision of "Man" 
—avdpojiros — in 13 : 3, 25, and 51 comes up "from the midst of 
the sea." Cf. also 13 : 52: "Like as thou canst neither seek out 
nor know the things that are in the deep of the sea: even so can 
no man upon earth see my Son. . . ." 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 331 

something that we "cannot tell anybody." We are afraid of 
being accused of mental abnormality — not without reason, 
for much the same thing happens to lunatics. Even so, it is 
a far cry from the intuitive perception of such an invasion 
to being inundated by it pathologically, though the layman 
does not realize this. Isolation by a secret results as a rule 
in an animation of the psychic atmosphere, as a substitute 
for loss of contact with other people. It causes an activation 
of the unconscious, and this produces something similar to 
the illusions and hallucinations that beset lonely wanderers 
in the desert, seafarers, and saints. The mechanism of these 
phenomena can best be explained in terms of energy. Our 
normal relations to objects in the world at large are main- 
tained by a certain expenditure of energy. If the relation 
to the object is cut off there is a "retention" of energy, 
which then creates an equivalent substitute. For instance, 
just as persecution mania comes from a relationship poi- 
soned by mistrust, so, as a substitute for the normal anima- 
tion of the environment, an illusory reality rises up in which 
weird ghostly shadows flit about in place of people. That 
is why primitive man has always believed that lonely and 
desolate places are haunted by "devils" and suchlike appari- 

4. Dream: 

The dreamer is surrounded by a throng of vague female 
forms. A voice within him says, "First I must get away 
from Father." 

Here the psychic atmosphere has been animated by what 
the Middle Ages would call succubi. We are reminded of 
the visions of St. Anthony in Egypt, so eruditely described 
by Flaubert in La Tentation de Saint- Antoine. The element 
of hallucination shows itself in the fact that the thought is 
spoken aloud. The words "first I must get away" call for a 
concluding sentence which would begin with "in order to." 
Presumably it would run "in order to follow the uncon- 
scious, i.e., the alluring female forms." The father, the cm- 

332 : Psychology and Alchemy 

bodiment of the traditional spirit as expressed in religion or 
a general philosophy of life, is standing in his way. He im- 
prisons the dreamer in the world of the conscious mind 
and its values. The traditional masculine world with its in- 
tellectualism and rationalism is felt to be an impediment, 
from which we must conclude that the unconscious, now 
approaching him, stands in direct opposition to the tend- 
encies of the conscious mind and that the dreamer, despite 
this opposition, is already favourably disposed towards the 
unconscious. For this reason the latter should not be sub- 
ordinated to the rationalistic judgments of consciousness; 
it ought rather to be an experience sui generis. Naturally it 
is not easy for the intellect to accept this, because it in- 
volves at least a partial, if not a total, sacrificium intellec- 
ts. Furthermore, the problem thus raised is very difficult 
for modern man to grasp; for to begin with he can under- 
stand the unconscious only as an inessential and unreal 
appendage of the conscious mind, and not as a special 
sphere of experience with laws of its own. In the course of 
the later dreams this conflict will appear again and again, 
until finally the right formula is found for the correlation 
of conscious and unconscious, and the personality is as- 
signed its correct position between the two. Moreover, such 
a conflict cannot be solved by understanding, but only by 
experience. Every stage of the experience must be lived 
through. There is no feat of interpretation or any other 
trick by which to circumvent this difficulty, for the union of 
conscious and unconscious can be achieved only step by 

The resistance of the conscious mind to the unconscious 
and the depreciation of the latter were historical necessities 
in the development of the human psyche, for otherwise the 
conscious mind would never have been able to differentiate 
itself at all. But modern man's consciousness has strayed 
rather too far from the fact of the unconscious. We have 
even forgotten that the psyche is by no means of our design, 
but is for the most part autonomous and unconscious. Con- 
sequently the approach of the unconscious induces a panic 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 333 

fear in civilized people, not least on account of the menac- 
ing analogy with insanity. The intellect has no objection to 
"analyzing" the unconscious as a passive object; on the 
contrary such an activity would coincide with our rational 
expectations. But to let the unconscious go its own way and 
to experience it as a reality is something that exceeds the 
courage and capacity of the average European. He prefers 
simply not to understand this problem. For the spiritually 
weak-kneed this is the better course, since the thing is not 
without its dangers. 

The experience of the unconscious is a personal secret 
communicable only to very few, and that with difficulty; 
hence the isolating effect we noted above. But isolation 
brings about a compensatory animation of the psychic at- 
mosphere which strikes us as uncanny. The figures that 
appear in the dream are feminine, thus pointing to the femi- 
nine nature of the unconscious. They are fairies or fascinat- 
ing sirens and lamias, who infatuate the lonely wanderer 
and lead him astray. Likewise seductive maidens appear 
at the beginning of the nekyia 8 of Poliphilo 9 and the Me- 
lusina of Paracelsus 10 is another such figure. 

5. Visual impression: 

A snake describes a circle round the dreamer, who stands 
rooted to the ground like a tree. 

8 X€Kvia, from j/e'/a/s (corpse), the title of the eleventh book of 
the Odyssey, is the sacrifice to the dead for conjuring up the departed 
from Hades. Nekyia is therefore an apt designation for the "journey 
to Hades," the descent into the land of the dead, and was used by 
Dieterich in this sense in his commentary on the Codex of Akhmim, 
which contains an apocalyptic fragment from the Gospel of Peter 
{Nekyia: Beit rage zur Erkl'drung der neuentdeckten Petmsapo- 
kalypse). Typical examples arc the Divine Comedy, the classical 
Walpurgisnacht in Faust, the apocryphal accounts of Christ's 
descent into hell, etc. 

w Cf. the French edition of Hypnerotomachia, called Lc Tableau des 
riches inventions or Songe de I'oliphile, translated by Beroalde dc 
Vervillc (Paris, 1600). The original Italian edition appeared in 


10 For details see Jung, "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon 

{Collected Works, Vol. 13), pars. 179^. 2I 4ft. 

S34 : Psychology and Alchemy 

The drawing of a spellbinding circle is an ancient magical 
device used by everyone who has a special or secret pur- 
pose in mind. He thereby protects himself from the "perils 
of the soul" that threaten him from without and attack any- 
one who is isolated by a secret. The same procedure has 
also been used since olden times to set a place apart as 
holy and inviolable: in founding a city, for instance, they 
first drew the sulcus primigenius or original furrow. 11 The 
fact that the dreamer stands rooted to the centre is a com- 
pensation of his almost insuperable desire to run away 
from the unconscious. He experienced an agreeable feeling 
of relief after this vision — and rightly, since he has suc- 
ceeded in establishing a protected temenos y 12 a taboo area 
where he will be able to meet the unconscious. His isola- 
tion, so uncanny before, is now endowed with meaning and 
purpose, and thus robbed of its terrors. 

6. Visual impression, directly following upon 5: 
The veiled figure of a woman seated on a stair. 
The motif of the unknown woman — whose technical 
name is the "anima" 13 — appears here for the first time, 
Like the throng of vague female forms in dream 4, she is 
a personification of the animated psychic atmosphere. From 
now on the figure of the unknown woman reappears in a 
great many of the dreams. Personification always indicates 
an autonomous activity of the unconscious. If some per- 
sonal figure appears we may be sure that the unconscious 
is beginning to grow active. The activity of such figures 
very often has an anticipatory character: something that 
the dreamer himself will do later is now being done in ad- 
vance. In this case the allusion is to a stair, thus indicating 
an ascent or a descent. 

Since the process running through dreams of this kind 

"Eduard Fritz Knuchel, Die Umwandlung in Kult, Magie und 
Rechtsbrauch (Basel, 19 19). 

12 A piece of land, often a grove, sec apart and dedicated to a god. 

13 For the concept of the "anima," see supra, pp. 148-161. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 33s 

has an historical analogy in the rites of initiation, it may 
not be superfluous to draw attention to the important part 
which the Stairway of the Seven Planets played in these 
rites, as we know from Apuleius, among others. The initia- 
tions of late classical syncretism, already saturated with 
alchemy (cf. the visions of Zosimos), 14 were particularly 
concerned with the theme of ascent, i.e., sublimation. The 
ascent was often represented by a ladder; hence the burial 
gift in Egypt of a smaller ladder for the ka of the dead. 15 
The idea of an ascent through the seven spheres of the 
planets symbolizes the return of the soul to the sun-god 
from whom it originated, as we know for instance from 
Firmicus Maternus. 16 Thus the Isis mystery described by 
Apuleius 17 culminated in what early medieval alchemy, 
going back to Alexandrian tradition as transmitted by the 
Arabs, 18 called the solificatio, where the initiand was 
crowned as Helios. 

7. Visual impression: 

The veiled woman uncovers her face. It shines like the 

The solificatio is consummated on the person of the 
anima. The process would seem to correspond to the illumi- 
natio t or enlightenment. This "mystical" idea contrasts 
strongly with the rational attitude of the conscious mind, 
which recognizes only intellectual enlightenment as the 
highest form of understanding and insight. Naturally this 

"Zosimos lived c. a.d. 300. Cf. Richard Reitzenstein, Poimandres: 

Studien zur griechisch-agyptischen und friihchristlichen Literatur 

(Leipzig, 1904), pp. 9fT.; Marcellin Berthelot, Collection des anciens 

alchimistes grecs (Paris, 1887-88, 3 vols.). Vol. Ill.i, p. 2. 

"The ladder motif is confirmed in dreams 12 and 13. Cf. also Jacob's 


16 De errore projanarum religionum: "Animo descensus per orbem 
solis tribuitur" (It is said [by the pagans] that the soul descends 
through the circle of the sun). 

17 The Golden Ass. 

18 Cf. Julius Ferdinand Ruska, Turba Philosophorum: eln Beitrag 
zur Geschichte der Alchemie. Qucllen und Studien zur Geschichte 
der Naturwissenschaften und der Medizin, 1 (Berlin, 193 1). 

33$ •' Psychology and Alchemy 

attitude never reckons with the fact that scientific knowl- 
edge only satisfies the little tip of personality that is con- 
temporaneous with ourselves, not the collective psyche 19 
that reaches back into the grey mists of antiquity and al- 
ways requires a special rite if it is to be united with present- 
day consciousness. It is clear, therefore, that a "lighting up" 
of the unconscious is being prepared, which has far more 
the character of an illuminatio than of rational "elucida- 
tion." The solificatio is infinitely far removed from the 
conscious mind and seems to it almost chimerical. 

8. Visual impression: 

A rainbow is to be used as a bridge. But one must go 
under it and not over it. Whoever goes over it will fall and 
be killed. 

Only the gods can walk rainbow bridges in safety; mere 
mortals fall and meet their death, for the rainbow is only 
a lovely semblance that spans the sky, and not a highway 
for human beings with bodies. These must pass "under it." 
But water flows under bridges too, following its own gra- 
dient and seeking the lowest place. This hint will be con- 
firmed later. 

9. Dream: 

A green land where many sheep are pastured. It is the 
"land of sheep." 

This curious fragment, inscrutable at first glance, may 
derive from childhood impressions and particularly from 
those of a religious nature, which would not be far to seek 
in this connection — e.g., "He maketh me to lie down in 
green pastures," or the early Christian allegories of sheep 
and shepherd. 20 The next vision points in the same direc- 

19 Cf. "collective unconscious," supra, pp. 59-69. 

20 The direct source of the Christian sheep symbolism is to be 
found in the visions of the Book of Enoch 89 : ioff. (Robert Henry 
Charles, ed., Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha [Oxford, 191 3, 2 vols.], 
Vol. II, p. 252). The Apocalypse of Enoch was written about the 
beginning of the first century b.c 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 33J 

10. Visual impression: 

The unknown woman stands in the land of sheep and 
points the way. 

The anima, having already anticipated the solificatio, 
now appears as the psychopomp, the one who shows the 
way. 21 The way begins in the children's land, i.e., at a time 
when rational present-day consciousness was not yet sep- 
arated from the historical psyche, the collective uncon- 
scious. The separation is indeed inevitable, but it leads to 
such an alienation from that dim psyche of the dawn of 
mankind that a loss of instinct ensues. The result is in- 
stinctual atrophy and hence disorientation in everyday 
human situations. But it also follows from the separation 
that the "children's land" will remain definitely infantile 
and become a perpetual source of childish inclinations and 
impulses. These intrusions are naturally most unwelcome 
to the conscious mind, and it consistently represses them 
for that reason. But the very consistency of the repression 
only serves to bring about a still greater alienation from 
the fountainhead, thus increasing the lack of instinct until 
it becomes lack of soul. As a result, the conscious mind is 
either completely swamped by childishness or else con- 
stantly obliged to defend itself in vain against the inunda- 
tion, by means of a cynical affectation of old age or em- 
bittered resignation. We must therefore realize that despite 
its undeniable success the rational attitude of present-day 
consciousness is, in many human respects, childishly un- 
adapted and hostile to life. Life has grown desiccated and 
cramped, crying out for the rediscovery of the fountain- 
head. But the fountainhead can only be found if the con- 
scious mind will suffer itself to be led back to the "chil- 
dren's land," there to receive guidance from the uncon- 
scious as before. To remain a child too long is childish, but 
it is just as childish to move away and then assume that 

71 In the vision of Enoch, the leader and prince appears first as a 
sheep or ram: Book of Enoch 89 : 48 (Charles, op. cit., Vol. II, p. 

338 : Psychology and Alchemy 

childhood no longer exists because we do not see it, But if 
we return to the ''children's land" we succumb to the fear 
of becoming childish, because we do not understand that 
everything of psychic origin has a double face. One face 
looks forward, the other back. It is ambivalent and there- 
fore symbolic, like all living reality. 

We stand on a peak of consciousness, believing in a child^ 
ish way that the path leads upward to yet higher peaks be- 
yond. That is the chimerical rainbow bridge. In order to 
reach the next peak we must first go down into the land 
where the paths begin to divide. 

li> Dream: 

A voice says, "But you are still a child" 

This dream forces the dreamer to admit that even a 
highly differentiated consciousness has not by any means 
finished with childish things, and that a return to the world 
of childhood is necessary. 

12, Dream; 

A dangerous walk with Father and Mother, up and 
down many ladders. 

A childish consciousness is always tied to father and 
mother, and is never by itself. Return to childhood is al- 
ways the return to father and mother, to the whole burden 
of the psychic non-ego as represented by the parents, with 
its long and momentous history. Regression spells disinte- 
gration into our historical and hereditary determinants, 
and it is only with the greatest effort that we can free our- 
selves from their embrace. Our psychic pre-history is in 
truth the spirit of gravity, which needs steps and ladders be- 
cause, unlike the disembodied airy intellect, it cannot fly at 
will. Disintegration into the jumble of historical determi- 
nants is like losing one's way, where even what is right 
seems an alarming mistake. 

As hinted above, the steps and ladders theme points to 
the process of psychic transformation, with all its ups and 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 339 

downs. We find a classic example of this in Zosimos' ascent 
and descent of the fifteen steps of light and darkness. -- 

It is of course impossible to free oneself from one's child- 
hood without devoting a great deal of work to it, as Freud's 
researches have long since shown. Nor can it be achieved 
through intellectual knowledge only; what is alone elTectivc 
is a remembering that is also a re-experiencing. The swift 
passage of the years and the overwhelming inrush of the 
newly discovered world leave a mass of material behind 
that is never dealt with. We do not shake this off; we merely 
remove ourselves from it. So that when, in later years, we 
return to the memories of childhood we find bits o( our per- 
sonality still alive, which cling round us and suffuse us with 
the feeling of earlier times. Being still in their childhood 
state, these fragments are very powerful in their effect. 
They can lose their infantile aspect and be corrected only 
when they are reunited with adult consciousness. This ''per- 
sonal unconscious" must always be dealt with first, that is, 
made conscious, otherwise the gateway to the collective un- 
conscious cannot be opened. The journey with father and 
mother up and down many ladders represents the making 
conscious of infantile contents that have not yet been inte- 

13. Dream: 

The father calls out anxiously, "That is the seventh!' 1 
During the walk over many ladders some event has evi- 
dently taken place which is spoken of as "the seventh." In 
the language of initiation, "seven" stands for the highest 
stage of illumination and would therefore be the coveted 
goal of all desire. But to the conventional mind the soli* 
ficatio is an outlandish, mystical idea bordering on mad- 
ness. We assume that it was only in the dark ages o\ misty 
superstition that people thought in such a nonsensical fash- 
ion, but that the lucid and hygienic mentality of our own 

-Bcrthclot, Collection des anciens alchimLttfs grecs. Ill, i. 1 C f 
also Jung, "The Visions of Zosimos" (Collected II Oiks, Vert. i3)« 

340 : Psychology and Alchemy 

enlightened days has long since outgrown such nebulous no- 
tions, so much so, indeed, that this particular kind of "illu- 
mination" is to be found nowadays only in a lunatic asy- 
lum. No wonder the father is scared and anxious, like a hen 
that has hatched out ducklings and is driven to despair by 
the aquatic proclivities of its young. If this interpretation — 
that the ''seventh" represents the highest stage of illumina- 
tion — is correct, it would mean in principle that the process 
of integrating the personal unconscious was actually at an 
end. Thereafter the collective unconscious would begin to 
open up, which would suffice to explain the anxiety the 
father felt as the representative of the traditional spirit. 

Nevertheless the return to the dim twilight of the un- 
conscious does not mean that we should entirely abandon 
the precious acquisition of our forefathers, namely the in- 
tellectual differentiation of consciousness. It is rather a 
question of the man taking the place of the intellect — not 
the man whom the dreamer imagines himself to be, but 
someone far more rounded and complete. This would 
mean assimilating all sorts of things into the sphere of his 
personality which the dreamer still rejects as disagreeable or 
even impossible. The father who calls out so anxiously, 
"That is the seventh!" is a psychic component of the 
dreamer himself, and the anxiety is therefore his own. So 
the interpretation must bear in mind the possibility that 
the "seventh" means not only a sort of culmination but 
something rather ominous as well. We come across this 
theme, for instance, in the fairytale of Tom Thumb and the 
Ogre. Tom Thumb is the youngest of seven brothers. His 
dwarflike stature and his cunning are harmless enough, yet 
he is the one who leads his brothers to the ogre's lair, thus 
proving his own dangerous double nature as a bringer of 
good and bad luck; in other words, he is also the ogre him- 
self. Since olden times "the seven" have represented the 
seven gods of the planets; they form what the Pyramid in- 
scriptions call a pant neteru, a "company of gods." 23 Al- 

23 Sir E. A. Wallis Budge, in Gods of the Egyptians (London, 1904, 
2 vols.), Vol. I, p. 87, uses this expression. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 341 

though a company is described as "nine," it often proves 
to be not nine at all but ten, and sometimes even more. 
Thus Maspcro- 4 tells us that the first and last members of 
the series can be added to, or doubled, without injury to the 
number nine. Something of the sort happened to the classi- 
cal pant of the Greco-Roman or Babylonian gods in the 
post-classical age, when the gods were degraded to demons 
and retired partly to the distant stars and partly to the 
metals inside the earth. It then transpired that Hermes or 
Mercurius possessed a double nature, being a chthonic god 
of revelation and also the spirit of quicksilver, for which 
reason he was represented as a hermaphrodite. As the 
planet Mercury, he is nearest to the sun, hence he is pre- 
eminently related to gold. But, as quicksilver, he dissolves 
the gold and extinguishes its sunlike brilliance. All through 
the Middle Ages he was the object of much puzzled specu- 
lation on the part of the natural philosophers: sometimes he 
was a ministering and helpful spirit, a TrdptSfjos (literally 
"assistant, comrade") or familiaris; and sometimes the 
servus or cervus fugitivus (the fugitive slave or stag), an 
elusive, deceptive, teasing goblin 25 who drove the alchemists 
to despair and had many of his attributes in common with 
the devil. For instance he is dragon, lion, eagle, raven, to 
mention only the most important of them. In the alchemical 
hierarchy of gods Mercurius comes lowest as prima materia 
and highest as lapis philosophornm. The spirit us mcrcurialis 
is the alchemists' guide (Hermes Psychopompos, and their 
tempter; he is their ^ood luck and their ruin. His dual na- 
ture enables him to be not only the seventh but also the 
eighth — the eighth on Olympus, "whom nobody thought 
of" (see infra, p. 404). 

It may seem odd to the reader that anything as remote as 
medieval alchemy should have relevance here. But the 

24 Sir Gaston Camillc Charles Maspcro, £tudcs de mythohgic et 

d'archeologie cgyptiennes (Paris, 1893—19 1 3, 7 vols.), Vol. II, p. 


23 Cf. the entertaining dialogue between the alchemist and Mercurius 

in Sendivogius, "Dialogus Mcrcurii, alchymislac, ct naturae," 

Thcatrum chemicum, Vol. 4 (Slrassburg, 1 61 3), pp. 509-17. 

342 : Psychology and Alchemy 

"black art" is not nearly so remote as we think; for as an 
educated man the dreamer must have read Faust, and Faust 
is an alchemical drama from beginning to end, although the 
educated man of today has only the haziest notion of this. 
Our conscious mind is far from understanding everything, 
but the unconscious always keeps an eye on the "age-old, 
sacred things," however strange they may be, and reminds 
us of them at a suitable opportunity. No doubt Faust af- 
fected our dreamer much as Goethe was affected when, as a 
young man in his Leipzig days, he studied Theophrastus 
Paracelsus with Fraulein von Klettenberg. 26 It was then, 
as we certainly may assume, that the mysterious equiva- 
lence of seven and eight sank deep into his soul, without his 
conscious mind ever unravelling the mystery. The following 
dream will show that this reminder of Faust is not out of 

14. Dream: 

The dreamer is in America looking for an employee with 
a pointed beard. They say that everybody has such an em- 

America is the land of practical, straightforward think- 
ing, uncontaminated by our European sophistication. The 
intellect would there be kept, very sensibly, as an employee. 
This naturally sounds like lese-majeste and might therefore 
be a serious matter. So it is consoling to know that every- 
one (as is always the case in America) does the same. The 
"man with a pointed beard" is our time-honoured Meph- 
isto whom Faust "employed" and who was not permitted 
to triumph over him in the end, despite the fact that Faust 
had dared to descend into the dark chaos of the historical 
psyche and steep himself in the ever-changing, seamy side 
of life that rose up out of that bubbling cauldron. 

From subsequent questions it was discovered that the 
dreamer himself had recognized the figure of Mephis- 
topheles in the "man with the pointed beard." Versatility 

28 Goethe, Dichtung und Wahrheit. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 343 

of mind as well as the inventive gift and scientific leanings 
are attributes of the astrological Mercurius. Hence the man 
with the pointed beard represents the intellect, which is 
introduced by the dream as a real familiaris, an obliging if 
somewhat dangerous spirit. The intellect is thus degraded 
from the supreme position it once occupied and is put in 
the second rank, and at the same time branded as daemonic. 
Not that it had ever been anything but daemonic — only the 
dreamer had not noticed before how possessed he was by 
the intellect as the tacitly recognized supreme power. Now 
he has a chance to view this function, which till then had 
been the uncontested dominant of his psychic life, at some- 
what closer quarters. Well might he exclaim with Faust: 
"So that's what was inside the poodle!" Mephistopheles is 
the diabolical aspect of every psychic function that has 
broken loose from the hierarchy of the total psyche and 
now enjoys independence and absolute power. But this 
aspect can be perceived only when the function becomes a 
separate entity and is objectivated or personified, as in this 

Amusingly enough, the "man with the pointed beard" 
also crops up in alchemical literature, in one of the "Parab- 
olae" contained in the "Guldenen Tractat vom philosophi- 
schen Stein," 27 written in 1625, which Herbert Silberer 28 
has analyzed from a psychological point of view. Among 
the company of old white-bearded philosophers there is a 
young man with a black pointed beard. Silberer is uncertain 
whether he should assume this figure to be the devil. 

Mercurius as quicksilver is an eminently suitable symbol 
for the "fluid," i.e., mobile, intellect. Therefore in alchemy 
Mercurius is sometimes a "spirit" and sometimes a "water/* 
the so-called aqua permanens, which is none other than 
argent um vivum. 

97 Printed in Geheime Figuren der Rosenkrcuzer, aus dem i6ten 
und i-jlen Jahrhundert (Altona, 1785-88, 2 vols.). 
88 Herbert Silberer, Problems of Mysticism and Its Symbolism, 
translated by Smith Ely Jellifle (New York, 1917). 

344 •* Psychology and Alchemy 

15. Dream: 

The dreamer s mother is pouring water from one basin 
into another. (The dreamer only remembered in connection 
with vision 28 of the next series that this basin belonged 
to his sister.) This action is performed with great solem- 
nity: it is of the highest significance for the outside world. 
Then the dreamer is rejected by his father. 

Once more we meet with the theme of "exchange" (cf. 
dream 1): one thing is put in the place of another. The 
"father" has been dealt with; now begins the action of the 
"mother." Just as the father represents collective conscious- 
ness, the traditional spirit, so the mother stands for the col- 
lective unconscious, the source of the water of life. 29 (Cf. 
the maternal significance of 7rr)yrj, s<) the fons signatus? 1 as 
an attribute of the Virgin Mary, etc.) The unconscious has 
altered the locus of the life forces, thus indicating a change 
of attitude. The dreamer's subsequent recollection enables 
us to see who is now the source of life: it is the "sister." 
The mother is superior to the son, but the sister is his equal. 
Thus the deposition of the intellect frees the dreamer from 
the domination of the unconscious and hence from his in- 
fantile attitude. Although the sister is a remnant of the past, 
we know definitely from later dreams that she was the car- 
rier of the anima-image. We may therefore assume that the 
transferring of the water of life to the sister really means 
that the mother has been replaced by the anima. 32 

The anima now becomes a life-giving factor, a psychic 
reality which conflicts strongly with the world of the father. 
Which of us could assert, without endangering his sanity, 

29 For water as origin, cf. Egyptian cosmogony, among others. 
s0 Albrecht Wirth, Aus orientalischen Chroniken (Frankfurt am 
Main, 1894), p. 199. 

31 "A fountain sealed": Song of Songs 4 : 12. 

32 This is really a normal life-process, but it usually takes place 
quite unconsciously. The anima is an archetype that is always 
present. The mother is the first carrier of the anima-image, which 
gives her a fascinating quality in the eyes of the son. It is then 
transferred, via the sister and similar figures, to the beloved. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 34s 

that he had accepted the guidance of the unconscious in the 
conduct of his life, assuming that anyone exists who could 
imagine what that would mean? Anyone who could imagine 
it at all would certainly have no difficulty in understanding 
what a monstrous affront such a volte face would offer to 
the traditional spirit, especially to the spirit that has put on 
the earthly garment of the Church. It was this subtle change 
of psychic standpoint that caused the old alchemists to re- 
sort to deliberate mystification, and that sponsored all kinds 
of heresies. Hence it is only logical for the father to reject 
the dreamer — it amounts to nothing less than excommuni- 
cation. (Be it noted that the dreamer is a Roman Catholic.) 
By acknowledging the reality of the psyche and making it 
a co-determining ethical factor in our lives, we offend 
against the spirit of convention which for centuries has 
regulated psychic life from outside by means of institutions 
as well as by reason. Not that unreasoning instinct rebels of 
itself against firmly established order; by the strict logic of 
its own inner laws it is itself of the firmest structure imagin- 
able and, in addition, the creative foundation of all bind- 
ing order. But just because this foundation is creative, all 
order which proceeds from it — even in its most "divine" 
form — is a phase, a stepping-stone. Despite appearances 
to the contrary, the establishment of order and the dissolu- 
tion of what has been established are at bottom beyond hu- 
man control. The secret is that only that which can destroy 
itself is truly alive. It is well that these things are difficult 
to understand and thus enjoy a wholesome concealment, for 
weak heads are only too easily addled by them and thrown 
into confusion. From all these dangers dogma — whether 
ecclesiastical, philosophical, or scientific — offers effective 
protection, and, looked at from a social point of view, ex- 
communication is a necessary and useful consequence. 

The water that the mother, the unconscious, pours into 
the basin belonging to the anima is an excellent symbol for 
the living power of the psyche. The old alchemists never 
tired of devising new and expressive synonyms for this 

346 ' Psychology and Alchemy 

water. They called it aqua nostra, mercurius vivus, argen* 
turn vivum, vinum ardens, aqua vitae, succus lunariae, and 
so on, by which they meant a living being not devoid of 
substance, as opposed to the rigid immateriality of mind in 
the abstract. The expression succus lunariae (sap of the 
moon-plant) refers clearly enough to the nocturnal origin 
of the water, and aqua nostra, like mercurius vivus, to' its 
earthliness. Acetum fontis is a powerful corrosive water 
that dissolves all created things and at the same time leads 
to the most durable of all products, the mysterious lapis. 

These analogies may seem very far-fetched. But let me 
refer the reader to dreams 13 and 14 in the next section, 
where the water symbolism is taken up again. The impor- 
tance of the action "for the outside world," noted by the 
dreamer himself, points to the collective significance of the 
dream, as also does the fact — which had a far-reaching in- 
fluence on the conscious attitude of the dreamer — that he 
is "rejected by the father." 

The saying "extra ecclesiam nulla salus" — outside the 
Church there is no salvation — rests on the knowledge that 
an institution is a safe, practicable highway with a visible 
or definable goal, and that no paths and no goals can be 
found outside it. We must not underestimate the devas- 
tating effect of getting lost in the chaos, even if we know 
that it is the sine qua non of any regeneration of the spirit 
and the personality. 

16. Dream: 

An ace of clubs lies before the dreamer. A seven appears 
beside it. 

The ace, as "1," is the lowest card but the highest in 
value. The ace of clubs, being in the form of a cross, points 
to the Christian symbol. 33 Hence in Swiss-German the club 
is often called Chruuz (cross). At the same time the three 
leaves contain an allusion to the threefold nature of the one 
God. Lowest and highest are beginning and end, alpha and 

33 Cf. dream 23 of second series. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 347 

The seven appears after the ace of clubs and not 
before. Presumably the idea is: first the Christian con- 
ception of God, and then the seven (stages). The seven 
stages symbolize the transformation which begins with 
the symbolism of Cross and Trinity, and, judging by the 
earlier archaic allusions in dreams 7 and 13, culminates 
in the solificatio. But this solution is not hinted at here. 
Now, we know that the regression to the Helios of anti- 
quity vainly attempted by Julian the Apostate was suc- 
ceeded in the Middle Ages by another movement that 
was expressed in the formula "per crucem ad rosam" 
(through the cross to the rose), which was later condensed 
into the "Rosie Crosse" of the Rosicrucians. Here the es- 
sence of the heavenly Sol descends into the flower — earth's 
answer to the sun's countenance. The solar quality has sur- 
vived in the symbol of the "golden flower" of Chinese 
alchemy. 34 The well-known "blue flower" of the Romantics 
might well be the last nostalgic perfume of the "rose"; it 
looks back in true Romantic fashion to the medievalism of 
ruined cloisters, yet at the same time modestly proclaims 
something new in earthly loveliness. But even the golden 
brilliance of the sun had to submit to a descent, and it 
found its analogy in the glitter of earthly gold — although, 
as aurum nostrum, this was far removed from the gross 

34 Concerning the "golden flower" of medieval alchemy, see 
Adolphus Senior, Azoth, she Aureliae occultae philosophorum 
(Frankfurt, 1613). The golden flower comes from the Greek 
XpvaavBiov (Berthelot, op. cit., Vol. lll.xlix, p. 19) and xpvv* v Q € n° v 
= "golden flower," a magical plant like the Homeric /xu>Xu, which 
is often mentioned by the alchemists. The golden flower is ihc 
noblest and purest essence of gold. The same name is sometimes 
given to pyrites. [Cf. Edmund O. von Lippmann, Entstchung und 
Ausbreitimg der Alchemie (Berlin, 1919-31, 2 vols.), Vol. I, p. 
70]. The strength of the aqua pertnanens is also called flos, 
"flower" (Ruska, ed., Turba, op. cit., p. 214, 20). Flos is used by 
later alchemists to express the mystical transforming substance. 
(Cf. "flos citrinus" in Aurora consurgens; "flos aeris aureus" in 
"Consil. coniug., Ars chemicaT (Strassburg, 1566), p. 167; "flos 
est aqua nummosa [Mercurius]" in "Allcgoriae sapicntum," Thca- 
trum chemicum, Vol. 5 (1622), p. 81; "flos opcris est lapis" in 
Johann Daniel Mylius, Philosophia reformata (Frankfurt, 1622), 
P- 30. 

34$ •' Psychology and Alchemy 

materiality of the metal, at least for subtler minds. One of 
the most interesting of the alchemical texts is the Rosarium 
philosophorum, subtitled Secunda pars alchimiae de lapide 
philosophico vero modo praeparando. . . . Cum figuris rei 
perfectionem ostendentibus (1550). 35 The anonymous au- 
thor was very definitely a "philosopher" and was appar- 
ently aware that alchemy was not concerned with ordinary 
goldmaking but with a philosophical secret. For these al- 
chemists the gold undoubtedly had a symbolic nature 36 and 
was therefore distinguished by such attributes as vitreum or 
philosophicum. It was probably owing to its all too obvious 
analogy with the sun that gold was denied the highest philo- 
sophical honour, which fell instead to the lapis philoso- 
phorum. The transformer is above the transformed, and 
transformation is one of the magical properties of the mar- 
vellous stone. The Rosarium philosophorum says: "For 
our stone, namely the living western quicksilver which has 
placed itself above the gold and vanquished it, is that which 
kills and quickens." 37 As to the "philosophical" signifi- 
cance of the lapis, the following quotation from a treatise 
ascribed to Hermes is particularly enlightening: "Under- 
stand, ye sons of the wise, what this exceeding precious 
stone proclaims . . . 'And my light conquers every light, 
and my virtues are more excellent than all virtues. ... I 
beget the light, but the darkness too is of my na- 
ture. . . ; " 3 8 

33 Reprinted in Artis auriferae (Basel 1593, 2 vols.), Vol. II, pp. 
204ff. and Joannes Jacobus Magnetus, ed., Bibliotheca chemica 
curiosa (Geneva, 1702, 2 vols.), Vol. II, pp. 87!!. My quotations are 
usually taken from the 1593 version. 

30 As the Rosarium says: "Aurum nostrum non est aurum vulgi" 
(Our gold is not the common gold). Art. aurif., II, p. 220. 
87 "Quia lapis noster scilicet argentum vivum occidentale, quod 
praetulit se auro et vicit illud, et illud quod occidit et vivere facit." 
Ibid., p. 223. 

38 "Intelligite, filii sapientum, quod hie lapis preciosissimus clamat, 
. . . et lumen meum omne lumen superat ac mea bona omnibus 
bonis sunt sublimiora. . . . Ego gigno lumen, tenebrae autem natu- 
rae meae sunt. . . ." Ibid., p. 239. Concerning the Hermes quotations 
in Rosarium, see infra, p. 369, n. 68. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 349 

17. Dream: 

The dreamer goes for a long walk, and finds a blue flower 
on the way. 

To go for a walk is to wander along paths that lead no- 
where in particular; it is both a search and a succession of 
changes. The dreamer finds a blue flower blossoming aim- 
lessly by the wayside, a chance child of nature, evoking 
friendly memories of a more romantic and lyrical age, of 
the youthful season when it came to bud, when the scien- 
tific view of the world had i>ot yet broken away from the 
world of actual experience — or rather when this break 
was only just beginning and the eye looked back to what 
was already the past. The flower is in fact like a friendly 
sign, a numinous emanation from the unconscious, show- 
ing the dreamer, who as a modern man has been robbed of 
security and of participation in all the things that lead to 
man's salvation, the historical place where he can meet 
friends and brothers of like mind, where he can find the 
seed that wants to sprout in him too. But the dreamer 
knows nothing as yet of the old solar gold which connects 
the innocent flower with the obnoxious black art of alchemy 
and with the blasphemous pagan idea of the solificatio. For 
the "golden flower of alchemy" can sometimes be a blue 
flower: "The sapphire blue flower of the hermaphrodite/' 3a 

18. Dream: 

A man offers him some golden coins in his outstretched 
hand. The dreamer indignantly throws them to the ground 
and immediately afterwards deeply regrets his action. A 
variety performance then takes place in an enclosed space. 

The blue flower has already begun to drag its history 
after it. The "gold" is ofTercd and is indignantly refused. 
Such a misinterpretation of the aurum philosophhum is 
easy to understand. But hardly has it happened when there 
comes a pang of remorse that the precious secret has been 
TO "Epistola ad Hcrmannum," Thcair. clum., V, p. 899. 

350 : Psychology and Alchemy 

rejected and a wrong answer given to the riddle of the 
Sphinx. The same thing happened to the hero in Meyrink's 
Golem, when the ghost offered him a handful of grain 
which he spurned. The gross materiality of the yellow metal 
with its odious fiscal flavour, and the mean look of the 
grain, make both rejections comprehensible enough — but 
that is precisely why it is so hard to find the lapis: it is 
exilis, uncomely, it is thrown out into the street or on the 
dunghill, it is the commonest thing to be picked up any- 
where — "in planitie, in montibus et aquis." It has this "or- 
dinary" aspect in common with Spitteler's jewel in Prome- 
theus and Epimetheus, which, for the same reason, was also 
not recognized by the worldly wise. But "the stone which 
the builders rejected, the same is become the head of the 
corner," and the intuition of this possibility arouses the 
liveliest regret in the dreamer. 

It is all part of the banality of its outward aspect that 
the gold is minted, i.e., shaped into coins, stamped, and 
valued. Applied psychologically, this is just what Nietzsche 
refuses to do in his Zarathustra: to give names to the vir- 
tues. By being shaped and named, psychic life is broken 
down into coined and valued units. But this is possible only 
because it is intrinsically a great variety of things, an accu- 
mulation of unintegrated hereditary units. Natural man is 
not a "self" — he is the mass and a particle in the mass, col- 
lective to such a degree that he is not even sure of his own 
ego. That is why since time immemorial he has needed the 
transformation mysteries to turn him into something, and 
to rescue him from the animal collective psyche, which is 
nothing but a variete. 

But if we reject this unseemly variete of man "as he is," 
it is impossible for him to attain integration, to become a 
self. 40 And that amounts to spiritual death. Life that just 

40 This does not mean that the self is created, so to speak, only 
during the course of life; it is rather a question of its becoming 
conscious. The self exists from the very beginning, but is latent, that 
is, unconscious. Cf. my later explanations. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 35/ 

happens in and for itself is not real life; it is real only when 
it is known. Only a unified personality can experience life, 
not that personality which is split up into partial aspects, 
that bundle of odds and ends which also calls itself "man." 
The dangerous plurality already hinted at in dream 4 is 
compensated in vision 5, where the snake describes a magic 
circle and thus marks off the taboo area, the temenos. In 
much the same way and in a similar situation the temenos 
reappears here, drawing the "many" together for a united 
variety performance — a gathering that has the appearance 
of an entertainment, though it will shortly lose its entertain- 
ing character: the "play of goats" will develop into a "trag- 
edy." According to all the analogies, the satyr play was a 
mystery performance, from which we may assume that its 
purpose, as everywhere, was to re-establish man's connec- 
tion with his natural ancestry and thus with the source of 
life, much as the obscene stories, aiVxpoAoyia, told by 
Athenian ladies at the mysteries of Eleusis, were thought 
to promote the earth's fertility. 41 (Cf. also Herodotus' ac- 
count 42 of the exhibitionistic performances connected with 
the Isis festivities at Bubastis.) 

The allusion to the compensatory significance of the 
temenos, however, is still wrapped in obscurity for the 
dreamer. As might be imagined, he is much more con- 
cerned with the danger of spiritual death, which is conjured 
up by his rejection of the historical context. 

19. Visual impression: 

A deaths-head. The dreamer wants to kick it away t but 
cannot. The skull gradually changes into a red ball, then 
into a woman's head which emits light. 

The skull soliloquies of Faust and of Hamlet are remind- 
ers of the appalling senselessness of human life when 
"sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." It was tradi- 
tional opinions and judgments that caused the dreamer to 

"Paul Francois Foucart, Les Mysteres d'Eleusis (Paris, 1914). 
"Histories, Vol. II, p. 58; translated by Powell, Vol. I, p. 137- 

352 : Psychology and Alchemy 

dash aside the doubtful and uninviting-looking offerings. 
But when he tries to ward off the sinister vision of the 
death's-head it is transformed into a red ball, which we may 
take as an allusion to the rising sun, since it at once 
changes into the shining head of a woman, reminding us 
directly of vision 7. Evidently an enantiodromia, a play of 
opposites, 43 has occurred: after being rejected the uncon- 
scious insists on itself all the more strongly. First it pro- 
duces the classical symbol for the unity and divinity of the 
self, the sun; then it passes to the motif of the unknown 
woman who personifies the unconscious. Naturally this 
motif includes not merely the archetype of the anima but 
also the dreamer's relationship to a real woman, who is 
both a human personality and a vessel for psychic projec- 
tions. ("Basin of the sister" in dream 15.) 

In Neoplatonic philosophy the soul has definite affinities 
with the sphere. The soul substance is laid round the con- 
centric spheres of the four elements above the fiery 
heaven. 44 

20. Visual impression: 

A globe. The unknown woman is standing on it and wor- 
shipping the sun. 

This impression, too, is an amplification of vision 7. The 
rejection in dream 18 evidently amounted to the destruction 
of the whole development up to that point. Consequently 
the initial symbols reappear now, but in amplified form. 
Such enantiodromias are characteristic of dream-sequences 
in general. Unless the conscious mind intervened, the un- 
conscious would go on sending out wave after wave with- 

43 For this term, see Editor's Introduction to this volume, p. xxvi 
— J.C. 

44 Cf. Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer, Hermes Trismegistus an die 
Menschliche Seele (Leipzig, 1970), p. 6; also the spherical form of 
Plato's Original Man and the a0aipos of Empedocles. As in the 
Timaeus, the alchemical anima mundi, like the "soul of the sub- 
stances," is spherical, and so is the gold. (See Michael Maier, De 
circulo physico quadrato [Oppenheim, 1616], pp. I if.) For the con- 
nection between the rotundum and the skull or head, see Jung, 
"Transformation Symbolism in the Mass" {Collected Works, Vol. 
u),pp. 239ff. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 353 

out result, like the treasure that is said to take nine years, 
nine months, and nine nights to come to the surface and, if 
not found on the last night, sinks back to start all over 
again from the beginning. 

The globe probably comes from the idea of the red ball. 
But, whereas this is the sun, the globe is rather an image of 
the earth, upon which the anima stands worshipping the 
sun. Anima and sun are thus distinct, which points to the 
fact that the sun represents a different principle from that 
of the anima. The latter is a personification of the uncon- 
scious, while the sun is a symbol of the source of life and 
the ultimate wholeness of man (as indicated in the solifi- 
catio). Now, the sun is an antique symbol that is still very 
close to us. We know also that the early Christians had 
some difficulty in distinguishing the :?yAio<? avaToXfjs (the ris- 
ing sun) from Christ. 45 The dreamer's anima still seems to 
be a sun-worshipper, that is to say, she belongs to the 
ancient world, and for the following reason: the conscious 
mind with its rationalistic attitude has taken little or no 
interest in her and therefore made it impossible for the 
anima to become modernized (or better, Christianized). It 
almost seems as if the differentiation of the intellect that 
began in the Christian Middle Ages, as a result of scholastic 
training, had driven the anima to regress to the ancient 
world. The Renaissance gives us evidence enough for this, 
the clearest of all being the Hypnerotomachia of Francesco 
Colonna, where Poliphilo meets his anima, the lady Polia, 
at the court of Queen Venus, quite untouched by Christian- 
ity and graced with all the "virtues" of antiquity. The book 
was rightly regarded as a mystery text. 40 With this anima, 
then, we plunge straight into the ancient world. So that I 

45 Cf. St. Augustine's argument that God is not this sun but he who 
made the sun (In Joannis Evong. Tract., XXXIV, 2) and the evidence 
of Eusebius, who actually witnessed "Christian" sun-worship (Con- 
slant in i O ratio ad Sanctorum Cochim, VI; Jacques Paul Mitfnc, 
Patrologiae cursus completus, Greek scries [1 857-66, 166 vols.), 
Vol. 20, cols. 1245-50). 

*°Beroaldc de Vcrvillc, in his introduction ["Recucil steganogri- 
phiquc") to the French translation (1600) of Hypnaotonunhm, 
plainly adopts this view. 

354 •' Psychology and Alchemy 

would not think anyone mistaken who interpreted the rejec- 
tion of the gold in dream 18 ex efjectu as an attempt to 
escape this regrettable and unseemly regression to antiquity, 
Certain vital doctrines of alchemical philosophy go back 
textually to late Greco-Roman syncretism, as Ruska, for 
instance, has sufficiently established in the case of the 
Turba. Hence any allusion to alchemy wafts one back to 
the ancient world and makes one suspect regression to 
pagan levels, 

It may not be superfluous to point out here, with due 
emphasis, that consciously the dreamer had no inkling of 
all this. But in his unconscious he is immersed in this sea 
of historical associations, so that he behaves in his dreams 
as if he were fully cognizant of these curious excursions 
into the history of the human mind. He is in fact an un- 
conscious exponent of an autonomous psychic develop- 
ment, just like the medieval alchemist or the classical Neo- 
platonist. Hence one could say — cum grano salis — that 
history could be constructed just as easily from one's own 
unconscious as from the actual texts. 

2/, Visual impression: 

The dreamer is surrounded by nymphs, A voice says, 
"We were always there, only you did not notice us." 

Here the regression goes back even further, to an image 
that is unmistakably classical. At the same time the situ- 
ation of dream 4 is taken up again and also the situation of 
dream 18, where the rejection led to the compensatory 
enantiodromia in vision 19. But here the image is amplified 
by the hallucinatory recognition that the drama has always 
existed although unnoticed until now. The realization of 
this fact joins the unconscious psyche to consciousness as a 
coexistent entity. The phenomenon of the "voice" in 
dreams always has for the dreamer the final and indis- 
putable character of the cujtos ec£a, 47 i.e., the voice expresses 

" "He said [it] himself," The phrase originally alluded to the authority 
of Pythagoras. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 355 

some truth or condition that is beyond all doubt. The fact 
that a sense of the remote past has been established, that 
contact has been made with the deeper layers ol the psyche, 
is accepted by the unconscious personality of the dreamer 
and communicates itself to his conscious mind as a feeling 
of comparative security. 

Vision 20 represents the anima as a sun-worshipper. She 
has as it were stepped out of the globe or spherical form. 
But the first spherical form was the skull. According to 
tradition the head or brain is the seat of the anima intellcc- 
tualis. For this reason too the alchemical vessel must be 
round like the head, so that what comes out of the vessel 
shall be equally "round," i.e., simple and perfect like the 
anima mundi. 48 The work is crowned by the production of 
the rotundum, which, as the materia globosa, stands at the 
beginning and also at the end, in the form of gold. Possibly 
the nymphs who "were always there" are an allusion to this. 
The regressive character of the vision is also apparent from 
the fact that there is a multiplicity of female forms, as in 
dream 4. But this time they are of a classical nature, 
which, like the sun-worship in vision 20, points to an his- 
torical regression. The splitting of the anima into many 
figures is equivalent to dissolution into an indefinite state, 
i.e., into the unconscious, from which we may conjecture 
that a relative dissolution of the conscious mind is running 
parallel with the historical regression (a process to be ob- 
served in its extreme form in schizophrenia). The dissolu- 
tion of consciousness or, as Janet calls it, abaissement du 
niveau mental, comes very close to the primitive state of 
mind. A parallel to this scene with the nymphs is to be 

48 Cf. "Liber PJatonis quartorum," Thcatr. cfwm., V, pp. I4yfi*-. 174. 
This treatise is a Harranitc text of great importance for the history 
of alchemy. It exists in Arabic and Latin, but the latter version is 
unfortunately very corrupt. The original was piobably written in 
the tenth century. Cf. Moritz Stcinschncider, "Die curop&ischCft 
Ubcrsctzungcn aus dem Arabischcn bis Mute des 17. Jahthuntlei is." 
Sitzttngsberichte dvr kahet lichen Akadenue dcr Wi&scnschajttn in 
Wien, Philowphisch-hhtorische Klasse, CL (1904), 1-84. CL1 
(1904), 1-108. 

35$ •' Psychology and Alchemy 

found in the Paracelsan regio nymphididica, mentioned in 
the treatise De vita longa as the initial stage of the individu- 
ation process. 49 

22. Visual impression: 

In a primeval forest. An elephant looms up menacingly. 
Then a large ape-man, bear, or cave-man threatens to at- 
tack the dreamer with a club. Suddenly the "man with the 
pointed beard" appears and stares at the aggressor, so that 
he is spellbound. But the dreamer is terrified. The voice 
says, ''Everything must be ruled by the light." 

The multiplicity of nymphs has broken down into still 
more primitive components; that is to say, the animation of 
the psychic atmosphere has very considerably increased, 
and from this we must conclude that the dreamer's isola- 
tion from his contemporaries has increased in proportion. 
This intensified isolation can be traced back to vision 21, 
where the union with the unconscious was realized and ac- 
cepted as a fact. From the point of view of the conscious 
mind this is highly irrational; it constitutes a secret which 
must be anxiously guarded, since the justification for its 
existence could not possibly be explained to any so-called 
reasonable person. Anyone who tried to do so would be 
branded as a lunatic. The discharge of energy into the envi- 
ronment is therefore considerably impeded, the result being 
a surplus of energy on the side of the unconscious: hence 
the abnormal increase in the autonomy of the unconscious 
figures, culminating in aggression and real terror. The ear- 
lier entertaining variety performance is beginning to be- 
come uncomfortable. We find it easy enough to accept the 
classical figures of nymphs thanks to their aesthetic embel- 
lishments; but we have no idea that behind these gracious 
figures there lurks the Dionysian mystery of antiquity, the 
satyr play with its tragic implications: the bloody dismem- 
berment of the god who has become an animal. It needed a 

49 Cf. "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" (Collected Works, 
Vol. 13), par. 214. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : ^57 

Nietzsche to expose in all its feebleness Europe's schoolboy 
attitude to the ancient world. But what did Dionysus mean 
to Nietzsche? What he says about it must be taken seri- 
ously; what it did to him still more so. There can be no 
doubt that he knew, in the preliminary stages of his fatal 
illness, that the dismal fate of Zagreus was reserved for 
him. Dionysus is the abyss of impassioned dissolution, 
where all human distinctions are merged in the animal 
divinity of the primordial psyche — a blissful and terrible 
experience. Humanity, huddling behind the walls of its cul- 
ture, believes it has escaped this experience, until it suc- 
ceeds in letting loose another orgy of bloodshed. All well- 
meaning people are amazed when this happens and blame 
high finance, the armaments industry, the Jews, or the Free- 



At the last moment, friend "Pointed Beard" appears on 
the scene as an obliging dens ex machina and exorcizes the 
annihilation threatened by the formidable ape-man. Who 
knows how much Faust owed his imperturbable curiosity, 
as he gazed on the spooks and bogeys of the classical Wal- 
purgisnacht, to the helpful presence of Mephisto and his 
matter-of-fact point of view! Would that more people could 
remember the scientific or philosophical reflections of the 
much-abused intellect at the right moment! Those who 
abuse it lay themselves open to the suspicion of never 
having experienced anything that might have taught them 
its value and shown them why mankind has forged this 
weapon with such unprecedented effort. One has to be 
singularly out of touch with life not to notice such things. 
The intellect may be the devil, but the devil is the "strange 
son of chaos" who can most readily be trusted to deal effec- 
tively with his mother. The Dionysian experience will give 
this devil plenty to do should he be looking for work, since 
the resultant settlement with the unconscious far outweighs 
the labours of Hercules. In my opinion it presents a whole 
world of problems which the intellect could not settle even 

60 1 wrote this passage in spring, 1935. 

3j5 ; Psychology and Alchemy 

in a hundred years — the very reason why it so often goes 
off for a holiday to recuperate on lighter tasks. And this is 
also the reason why the psyche is forgotten so often and so 
long, and why the intellect makes such frequent use of 
magical apotropaic words like "occult" and "mystic," in the 
hope that even intelligent people will think that these mut- 
terings really mean something. 

The voice finally declares, "Everything must be ruled by 
the light," which presumably means the light of the dis- 
cerning, conscious mind, a genuine illuminatio honestly ac- 
quired. The dark depths of the unconscious are no longer to 
be denied by ignorance and sophistry — at best a poor dis- 
guise for common fear — nor are they to be explained away 
with pseudo-scientific rationalizations. On the contrary it 
must now be admitted that things exist in the psyche about 
which we know little or nothing at all, but which neverthe- 
less affect our bodies in the most obstinate way, and that 
they possess at least as much reality as the things of the 
physical world which ultimately we do not understand 
either. No line of research which asserted that its subject 
was unreal or a "nothing but" has ever made any contribu- 
tion to knowledge. 

With the active intervention of the intellect a new phase 
of the unconscious process begins: the conscious mind 
must now come to terms with the figures of the unknown 
woman ("anima"), the unknown man ("the shadow"), the 
wise old man ("mana personality"), 51 and the symbols of 
the self. The last named are dealt with in the following 

51 "Wise Old Man": archetype of the Wisdom of Life personified as 
initiator. See below, Dream 14 (p. 342). "Mana personality": 
archetype of the mighty man in the form of hero, chief, magician, 
medicine-man, saint, ruler of men and spirits, friend of God. See 
Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (Collected Works, Vol. 7), 
pars. 376 ff. — J. C. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : ^59 

3. The Symbolism of the Mandala 

I. Concerning the Mandala 

As I have already said, I have put together, out of a 
continuous series of some four hundred dreams and visions, 
all those that I regard as mandala dreams. The term 
"mandala" was chosen because this word denotes the ritual 
or magic circle used in Lamaism and also in Tantric yoga 
as a yantra or aid to contemplation. The Eastern mandalas 

360 : Psychology and Alchemy 

used in ceremonial are figures fixed by tradition; they may 
be drawn or painted or, in certain special ceremonies, even 
represented plastically. 52 

In 1938, I had the opportunity, in the monastery of 
Bhutia Busty, near Darjeeling, of talking with a Lamaic 
rimpoche, Lingdam Gomchen by name, about the khilkor 
or mandala. He explained it as a dmigs-pa (pronounced 
"migpa"), a mental image which can be built up only by 
a fully instructed lama through the power of imagination. 
He said that no mandala is like any other, they are all 
individually different. Also, he said, the mandalas to be 
found in monasteries and temples were of no particular 
significance because they were external representations 
only. The true mandala is always an inner image, which 
is gradually built up through (active) imagination, at such 
times when psychic equilibrium is disturbed or when a 
thought cannot be found and must be sought for, because 
it is not contained in holy doctrine. The aptness of this 
explanation will become apparent in the course of my 
exposition. The alleged free and individual formation of 
the mandala, however, should be taken with a considerable 
grain of salt, since in all Lamaic mandalas there predomi- 
nates not only a certain unmistakable style but also a tra- 
ditional structure. For instance they are all based on a 
quaternary system, a quadratura circuli, and their contents 
are invariably derived from Lamaic dogma. There are texts, 
such as the Shri-Chakra-Sambhara Tantra, 53 which contain 
directions for the construction of these "mental images." 
The khilkor is strictly distinguished from the so-called 
sidpe-korlo y or World Wheel, which represents the course 
of human existence in its various forms as conceived by 
the Buddhists. In contrast to the khilkor, the World Wheel 

52 Cf. Richard Wilhelm and C.G.Jung, The Secret of the Golden 
Flower, translated by Cary F. Baynes (London and New York, 
1 931), and Heinrich Zimmer, Myths and Symbols in Indian Art 
and Civilization, Joseph Campbell, ed., Bollingen Series VI (New 
York, 1946). 
53 Arthur Avalon, The Serpent Power (London, 1919), VII. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 361 

is based on a ternary system in that the three world- 
principles are to be found in its centre: the cock, equalling 
concupiscence; the serpent, hatred or envy; and the pig, 
ignorance or unconsciousness (avidya). Here we come 
upon the dilemma of three and four, which also crops up 
in Buddhism. We shall meet this problem again in the 
further course of our dream-series. 

It seems to me beyond question that these Eastern sym- 
bols originated in dreams and visions, and were not in- 
vented by some Mahayana church father. On the contrary, 
they are among the oldest religious symbols of humanity 
and may even have existed in paleolithic times (cf. the 
Rhodesian rock-paintings). Moreover they are distributed 
all over the world, a point I need not insist on here. In this 
section I merely wish to show from the material at hand 
how mandalas come into existence. 

The mandalas used in ceremonial are of great signifi- 
cance because their centres usually contain one of the 
highest religious figures: either Shiva himself — often in 
the embrace of Shakti — or the Buddha, Amitabha, Ava- 
lokiteshvara, or one of the great Mahayana teachers, or 
simply the dorje, symbol of all the divine forces together, 
whether creative or destructive. The text of the Golden 
Flower, a product of Taoist syncretism, specifics in addi- 
tion certain "alchemical" properties of this centre after the 
manner of the lapis and the elixir vitae, so that it is in effect 
a. (frdpixaKov d#ara<7tas- 54 

It is not without importance for us to appreciate the 
high value set upon the mandala, for it accords very well 
with the paramount significance of individual mandala 
symbols which are characterized by the same qualities of 
a — so to speak — "metaphysical" nature. 55 Unless every- 

54 Cf. Richard Rcitzcnstcin, Die hellenistischen Mysterienreligioncn 

(Leipzig, 1910). 

"The quotation marks indicate that I am not positing anything by 

the term "metaphysical": I am only using it figuratively, in the 

psychological sense, to characterize the peculiar statements made by 


362 : Psychology and Alchemy 

thing deceives us, they signify nothing less than a psychic 
centre of the personality not to be identified with the ego. 
I have observed these processes and their products for 
close on thirty years on the basis of very extensive ma- 
terial drawn from my own experience. For fourteen years 
I neither wrote nor lectured about them so as not to 
prejudice my observations. But when, in 1929, Richard 
Wilhelm laid the text of the Golden Flower before me, I 
decided to publish at least a foretaste of the results. One 
cannot be too cautious in these matters, for what with 
the imitative urge and a positively morbid avidity to pos- 
sess themselves of outlandish feathers and deck themselves 
out in this exotic plumage, far too many people are misled 
into snatching at such "magical" ideas and applying them 
externally, like an ointment. People will do anything, no 
matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own 
souls. They will practise Indian yoga and all its exercises, 
observe a strict regimen of diet, learn theosophy by heart, 
or mechanically repeat mystic texts from the literature of 
the whole world — all because they cannot get on with 
themselves and have not the slightest faith that anything 
useful could ever come out of their own souls. Thus the 
soul has gradually been turned into a Nazareth from which 
nothing good can come. Therefore let us fetch it from 
the four corners of the earth — the more far-fetched and 
bizarre it is the better! I have no wish to disturb such peo- 
ple at their pet pursuits, but when anybody who expects 
to be taken seriously is deluded enough to think that I use 
yoga methods and yoga doctrines or that I get my patients, 
whenever possible, to draw mandalas for the purpose of 
bringing them to the "right point" — then I really must pro- 
test and tax these people with having read my writings with 
the most horrible inattention. The doctrine that all evil 
thoughts come from the heart and that the human soul is 
a sink of iniquity must lie deep in the marrow of their 
bones. Were that so, then God had made a sorry job of 
creation, and it were high time for us to go over to Marcion 

Dream Symbolism In Relation to Alchemy : 363 

the Gnostic and depose the incompetent demiurge. Eth- 
ically, of course, it is infinitely more convenient to leave 
God the sole responsibility for such a Home for Idiot 
Children, where no one is capable of putting a spoon into 
his own mouth. But it is worth man's while to take pains 
with himself, and he has something in his soul that can 
grow. 50 It is rewarding to watch patiently the silent hap- 
penings in the soul, and the most and the best happens 
when it is not regulated from outside and from above. I 
readily admit that I have such a great respect for what 
happens in the human soul that I would be afraid of dis- 
turbing and distorting the silent operation of nature by 
clumsy interference. That was why I even refrained from 
observing this particular case myself and entrusted the 
task to a beginner who was not handicapped by my 
knowledge — anything rather than disturb the process. The 
results which I now lay before you are the unadulterated, 
conscientious, and exact self-observations of a man of un- 
erring intellect, who had n6thing suggested to him from 
outside and who would in any case not have been open 
to suggestion. Anyone at all familiar with psychic material 
will have no difficulty in recognizing the authentic char- 
acter of the results. 

//. The Mandalas in the Dreams 

For the sake of completeness I will recapitulate the 
mandala symbols which occur in the initial dreams and 
visions already discussed: 

/. The snake that described a circle round the dreamer 

2. The blue flower (17). 

50 As Mcistcr Eckhart says, "It is not outside, it is inside: wholly 
within." Meister Eckhart, translated by C. dc B.Evans (London, 
1924, 2 vols.), Vol. I, p. 8. 

364 : Psychology and Alchemy 

3. The man with the gold coins in his hand, and the 
enclosed space for a variety performance (18). 

4. The red ball (19). 

5. The globe (20). 

The next mandala symbol occurs in the first dream of 
the new series: 57 

6. Dream: 

An unknown woman is pursuing the dreamer. He keeps 
running round in a circle. 

The snake in the first mandala dream was anticipatory, 
as is often the case when a figure personifying a certain 
aspect of the unconscious does or experiences something 
that the subject himself will experience later. The snake 
anticipates a circular movement in which the subject is 
going to be involved; i.e., something is taking place in the 
unconscious which is perceived as a circular movement, and 
this occurrence now presses into consciousness so forcefully 
that the subject himself is gripped by it. The unknown 
woman or anima representing the unconscious continues to 
harass the dreamer until he starts running round in circles. 
This clearly indicates a potential centre which is not iden- 
tical with the ego and round which the ego revolves. 

7. Dream: 

The anima accuses the dreamer of paying too little atten- 
tion to her. There is a clock that says five minutes to the 

The situation is much the same: the unconscious pesters 
him like an exacting woman. The situation also explains the 
clock, for a clock's hands go round in a circle. Five minutes 
to the hour implies a state of tension for anybody who lives 
by the clock: when the five minutes are up he must do 
something or other. He might even be pressed for time. 

57 [Inasmuch as the five mandala dreams and visions listed above 
necessarily figure in this new series (though actually part of the first 
dream-series), the author initiated the number sequence of the new — 
i.e., the mandala — series with them. — Editors of The Collected 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 365 

(The symbol of circular movement is always connected 
with a feeling of tension, as we shall see later.) 

8. Dream: 

On board ship. The dreamer is occupied with a new 
method of taking his bearings. Sometimes he is too far 
away and sometimes too near; the right spot is in the middle. 
There is a chart on which is drawn a circle with its centre. 

Obviously the task set here is to find the centre, the right 
spot, and this is the centre of a circle. While the dreamer 
was writing down this dream he remembered that he had 
dreamed shortly before of shooting at a target: sometimes 
he shot too high, sometimes too low. The right aim lay 
in the middle. Both dreams struck him as highly significant. 
The target is a circle with a centre. Bearings at sea are 
taken by the apparent rotation of the stars round the earth. 
Accordingly the dream describes an activity whose aim is 
to construct or locate an objective centre — a centre outside 
the subject. 

p. Dream: 

A pendulum clock that goes forever without the weights 
running down. 

This is a species of clock whose hands move unceasingly, 
and, since there is obviously no loss due to friction, it is a 
perpctuum mobile, an everlasting movement in a circle. 
Here we meet with a "metaphysical" attribute. As I have 
already said, I use this word in a psychological sense, hence 
figuratively. I mean by this that eternity is a quality pred- 
icated by the unconscious, and not a hypostasis. The 
statement made by the dream will obviously ofTend the 
dreamer's scientific judgment, but this is just what gi\cs 
the mandala its peculiar significance. Highly significant 
things arc often rejected because they seem to contradict 
reason and thus set it too arduous a test. The movement 
without friction shows that the clock is cosmic, even tran- 
scendental; at any rate it raises the question of a quality 
which leaves us in some doubt whether the ps)chic phc- 

366 : Psychology and Alchemy 

nomenon expressing itself in the mandala is under the laws 
of space and time. And this points to something so entirely 
different from the empirical ego that the gap between them 
is difficult to bridge; i.e., the other centre of personality lies 
on a different plane from the ego since, unlike this, it has 
the quality of "eternity" or relative timelessness. 

io. Dream: 

The dreamer is in the Peterhofstatt in Zurich with the 
doctor, the man with the pointed beard, and the "doll 
woman." The last is an unknown woman who neither 
speaks nor is spoken to. Question: To which of the three 
does the woman belong? 

The tower of St. Peter's in Zurich has a clock with a 
strikingly large face. The Peterhofstatt is an enclosed space, 
a temenos in the truest sense of the word, a precinct of the 
church. The four of them find themselves in this enclosure. 
The circular dial of the clock is divided into four quarters, 
like the horizon. In the dream the dreamer represents his 
own ego, the man with the pointed beard the "employed" 
intellect (Mephisto), and the "doll woman" the anima. 
Since the doll is a childish object it is an excellent image 
for the non-ego nature of the anima, who is further charac- 
terized as an object by "not being spoken to." This negative 
element (also present in dreams 6 and 7 above) indicates 
an inadequate relationship between the conscious mind 
and the unconscious, as also does the question of whom 
the unknown woman belongs to. The "doctor," too, belongs 
to the non-ego; he probably contains a faint allusion to my- 
self, although at that time I had no connections with the 
dreamer. 58 The man with the pointed beard, on the other 
hand, belongs to the ego. This whole situation is reminiscent 
of the relations depicted in the diagram of functions. If 
we think of the psychological function 50 as arranged 
in a circle, then the most differentiated function is usually 

58 As the dream at most alludes to me and does not name me, the un- 
conscious evidently has no intention of emphasizing my personal role. 

59 Cf. supra, p. xxviii, also, infra, pp. 382, note 95 and 383. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 367 

the carrier of the ego and, equally regularly, has an aux- 
iliary function attached to it. The "inferior" function, on 
the other hand, is unconscious and for that reason is pro- 
jected into a non-ego. It too has an auxiliary function. 
Hence it would not be impossible for the four persons in 
the dream to represent the four functions as components 
of the total personality (i.e., if we include the unconscious). 
But this totality is ego plus non-ego. Therefore the centre 
of the circle which expresses such a totality would corre- 
spond not to the ego but to the self as the summation of 
the total personality. (The centre with a circle is a very 
well-known allegory of the nature of God.) In the phi- 
losophy of the Upanishads the Self is in one aspect the 
personal atman, but at the same time it has a cosmic and 
metaphysical quality as the suprapersonal Atman. 60 

We meet with similar ideas in Gnosticism: I would men- 
tion the idea of the Anthropos, the Pleroma, the Monad, 
and the spark of light (Spinther) in a treatise of the Codex 

This same is he [Monogenes] who dwelleth in the Monad, 
which is in the Setheus, and which came from the place of 
which none can say where it is. . . . From Him it is the 
Monad came, in the manner of a ship, laden with all 
good things, and in the manner of a field, filled or planted 
with every kind of tree, and in the manner of a city, 
filled with all races of mankind. . . . This is the fashion 
of the Monad, all these being in it: there are twelve Mon- 
ads as a crown upon its head. . . . And to its veil which 
surroundeth it in the manner of a defence [wvpym - 
tower] there are twelve gates. . . . This same is 
the Mother-City [/xr/TpdVoAis] of the Only-begotten 
[p.ovoy(.vr)si\. Ql 

By way of explanation I should add that "Setheus" is a 
name for God, meaning "creator." The Monogenes is the 

•°Paul Deussen, Allgemeine Geschichte tier Philosophic (Leipzig, 
1906, 2 vols.), Vol. I. 

61 Charlotte Augusta Bayncs, A Coptic Gnostic Treatise Contained 
in the Codex Brucianus— Brute MS 96. Bodleian Library, Oxford 
(Cambridge, England, 1933), p. 89. 

j68 : Psychology and Alchemy 

Son of God. The comparison of the Monad with a field 
and a city corresponds to the idea of the temenos. Also, 
the Monad is crowned (cf. the hat which appears in dream 
i of the first series and dream 35 of this series) . As "metrop-^ 
olis" the Monad is feminine, like the padma or lotus, the 
basic form of the Lamaic mandala (the Golden Flower in 
China and the Rose or Golden Flower in the West). The 
Son of God, God made manifest, dwells in the flower. 62 
In the Book of Revelation, we find the Lamb in the centre 
of the Heavenly Jerusalem. And in our Coptic text we are 
told that Setheus dwells in the innermost and holiest re- 
cesses of the Pleroma, a city with four gates (equivalent 
to the Hindu City of Brahma on the world-mountain 
Meru). In each gate there is a Monad. 03 The limbs of the 
Anthropos born of the Autogenes (= Monogenes) corre- 
spond to the four gates of the city. The Monad is a spark 
of light (Spinther) and an image of the Father, identical 
with the Monogenes. An invocation runs: "Thou art the 
House and the Dweller in the House." ° 4 The Monogenes 
stands on a tetrapeza,^ a table or platform with four pillars 
corresponding to the quaternion of the four evangelists. 66 
The idea of the lapis has several points of contact with 
all this. In the Rosarium the lapis says, quoting Hermes: 67 

02 The Buddha, Shiva, etc., in the lotus; Christ in the rose, in the 
womb of Mary (ample material on this theme in Anselm Salzer, 
Die Sinnbihier und Beiworte Martens in der deutschen Literatur und 
lateinischen Hymnen — Poesie des Mittehdters [Linz, 1893]); the seed- 
ing-place of the diamond body in the golden flower. Cf. the cir- 
cumainbulation of the square in dream 16. 

0:5 Baynes, A Coptic Gnostic Treatise, p. 58. Cf. the Vajramandala, 
where the great dorje is found in the center surrounded by the twelve 
smaller dorjes, like the one Monad with the "twelve Monads as a 
crown upon its head." Moreover there is a dorje in each of the 
four gates. 
01 Ibid., p. 94. 

65 Ibid., p. 70. Similar to the tetramorph, the steed of the Church. 
60 Cf. Irenaeus, Adversus haereses, 111, xi, and Clement of Alexan- 
dria, Stromata, V, vi. 

07 Art. aw if., II, pp. 239! The Hermes quotations come from the 
fourth chapter of "Tractatus aureus 1 ' {Ars chemica, pp. 23f., or Bibl. 
chem., 1, pp. 427f.). 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 369 

"I beget the light, but the darkness too is of my nature 
. . . therefore nothing better or more worthy of venera- 
tion can come to pass in the world than the conjunction of 
myself and my son." 68 Similarly, the Monogenes is called 
the "dark light," CD a reminder of the sol niger, the black 
sun of alchemy. 70 

The following passage from Chapter 4 of the "Tractatus 
aureus" provides an interesting parallel to the Monogenes 
who dwells in the bosom of the Mother-City and is identical 
with the crowned and veiled Monad: 

But the king reigns, as is witnessed by his brothers, [and] 
says: "I am crowned, and I am adorned with the diadem; 
I am clothed with the royal garment, and I bring joy to 
the heart; for, being chained to the arms and breast of my 
mother, and to her substance, I cause my substance to 
hold together and rest; and I compose the invisible from 
the visible, making the occult to appear; and everything 
that the philosophers have concealed will be generated 
from us. Hear then these words, and understand them; 
keep them, and meditate upon them, and seek for nothing 
more. Man is generated from the principle of Nature 
whose inward parts are fleshy, and from no other sub- 

The "king" refers to the lapis. That the lapis is the "mas- 

68 "Ego gigno lumen, tenebrae autem naturae meae sunt ... me igi- 
tur et filio meo conjuncto, nihil melius ac venerabilius in mundo fieri 
potest." The Hermes sayings as quoted by the anonymous author of 
the Rosarium contain deliberate alterations that have far more sig- 
nificance than mere faulty readings. They are authentic recastings, to 
which he lends higher authority by attributing them to Hermes. I 
have compared the three printed editions of the "Tractatus aureus," 
1566, 1610, and 1702, and found that they all agree. The Rosarium 
quotation runs as follows in the "Tractatus aureus": "lam Venus ait: 
I£go genero lumen, nee tenebrae mcac naturae sunt ... me igitur ct 
fratri meo iunctis nihil melius ac venerabilius" (Venus says: I beget 
the light, and the darkness is not of my nature . . . therefore nothing 
is better or more worthy of veneration than the conjunction of 
myself and my brother). 
cu Baynes, A Coptic Gnostic Treatise, p. 87. 

70 Cf. Johann Daniel Mylius, Philosophia reformata (Frankfurt, 
1622), p. 19. 

370 : Psychology and Alchemy 

ter" is evident from the following Hermes quotation in the 
Rosarium: 11 "Et sic Philosophus non est Magister lapidis, 
sed potius minister" (And thus the philosopher is not the 
master of the stone but rather its minister). Similarly the 
final production of the lapis in the form of the crowned 
hermaphrodite is called the aenigma regis. 12 A German 
verse refers to the aenigma as follows: 

Here now is born the emperor of all honour 
Than whom there cannot be born any higher, 
Neither by art nor by the work of nature 
Out of the womb of any living creature. 
Philosophers speak of him as their son 
And everything they do by him is done. 73 

The last two lines might easily be a direct reference to 
the above quotation from Hermes. 

It looks as if the idea had dawned on the alchemists that 
the Son who, according to classical (and Christian) tradi- 
tion, dwells eternally in the Father and reveals himself as 
God's gift to mankind, was something that man could 
produce out of his own nature — with God's help, of course 
(Deo concedente) . The heresy of this idea is obvious. 

The feminine nature of the inferior function derives from 
its contamination with the unconscious. Because of its 
feminine characteristics the unconscious is personified by 
the anima (that is to say, in men; in women it is mas- 
culine). 74 

If we assume that this dream and its predecessors really 
do mean something that justly arouses a feeling of signifi- 
cance in the dreamer, and if we further assume that this 
significance is more or less in keeping with the views put 
forward in the commentary, then we would have reached 
here a high point of introspective intuition whose boldness 
leaves nothing to be desired. But even the everlasting pen- 

71 Art. aurif., II, p. 356. 

72 Ibid., p. 359. 

73 Ibid. 

74 Cf. supra, pp. 148-62. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 371 

dulum clock is an indigestible morsel for a consciousness 
unprepared for it, and likely to hamper any too lofty flight 
of thought. 

//. Dream: 

The dreamer, the doctor, a pilot, and the unknown 
woman are travelling by airplane. A croquet ball suddenly 
smashes the mirror, an indispensable instrument of naviga- 
tion, and the airplane crashes to the ground. Here again 
there is the same doubt: to whom does the unknown woman 

Doctor, pilot, and unknown woman are characterized as 
belonging to the non-ego by the fact that all three of them 
are strangers. Therefore the dreamer has retained possession 
only of the differentiated function, which carries the ego; 
that is, the unconscious has gained ground considerably. 
The croquet ball is part of a game where the ball is driven 
under a hoop. Vision 8 of the first series said that people 
should not go over the rainbow (fly?), but must go under 
it. Those who go over it fall to the ground. It looks as 
though the flight had been too lofty after all. Croquet is 
played on the ground and not in the air. We should not 
rise above the earth with the aid of "spiritual" intuitions 
and run away from hard reality, as so often happens with 
people who have brilliant intuitions. We can never reach 
the level of our intuitions and should therefore not identify 
ourselves with them. Only the gods can pass over the rain- 
bow bridge; mortal men must stick to the earth and arc 
subject to its laws. In the light of the possibilities revealed 
by intuition, man's earthliness is certainly a lamentable 
imperfection; but this very imperfection is part of his innate 
being, of his reality. He is compounded not only of his 
best intuitions, his highest ideals and aspirations, but also 
of the odious conditions of his existence, such as heredity 
and the indelible sequence of memories that shout alter 
him: "You did it, and that's what >ou are!" Man may 
have lost his ancient saurian's tail, but in its stead he has 

37 2 * Psychology and Alchemy 

a chain hanging on to his psyche which binds him to the 
earth — an anything-but-Homeric chain 75 of given con- 
ditions which weigh so heavy that it is better to remain 
bound to them, even at the risk of becoming neither a 
hero nor a saint. (History gives us some justification for 
not attaching any absolute value to these collective norms.) 
That we are bound to the earth does not mean that we 
cannot grow; on the contrary it is the sine qua non of 
growth. No noble, well-grown tree ever disowned its dark 
roots, for it grows not only upward but downward as well. 
The question of where we are going is of course extremely 
important; but equally important, it seems to me, is the 
question of who is going where. The "who" always implies 
a "whence." It takes a certain greatness to gain lasting 
possession of the heights, but anybody can overreach him- 
self. -The difficulty lies in striking the dead centre (cf. 
dream 8). For this an awareness of the two sides of man's 
personality L essential, of their respective aims and origins. 
These two aspects must never be separated through arro- 
gance or cowardice. 

The "mirror" as an "indispensable instrument of naviga- 
tion" doubtless refers to the intellect, which is able to think 
and is constantly persuading us to identify ourselves with 
its insights ("reflections"). The mirror is one of Schopen- 
hauer's favourite similes for the intellect. The term "instru- 
ment of navigation" is an apt expression for this, since it 
is indeed man's indispensable guide on pathless seas. But 
when the ground slips from under his feet and he begins 
to speculate in the void, seduced by the soaring flights of in- 
tuition, the situation becomes dangerous. 

Here again the dreamer and the three dream figures 
form a quaternity. The unknown woman or anima always 
represents the "inferior," i.e., the undifferentiated function, 

75 The Homeric chain in alchemy is the series of great wise men, 
beginning with Hermes Trismegistus, which links earth with heaven. 
At the same time it is the chain of substances and different chemical 
states that appear in the course of the alchemical process. Cf. Aurea 
catena Homeri (Frankfurt and Leipzig, 1723). 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 373 

which in the case of our dreamer is feeling. The croquet 
ball is connected with the "round" motif and is therefore 
a symbol of wholeness, that is, of the self, here shown to be 
hostile to the intellect (the mirror). Evidently the dreamer 
"navigates" too much by the intellect and thus upsets the 
process of individuation. In De vita longa, Paracelsus de- 
scribes the "four" as Scaiolae, but the self as Adcch (from 
Adam — the first man). Both, as Paracelsus emphasizes, 
cause so many difficulties in the "work" that one can almost 
speak of Adech as hostile. 70 

12. Dream: 

The dreamer finds himself with his father, mother, and 
sister in a very dangerous situation on the platform of a 

Once more the dreamer forms a quaternity with the 
other dream figures. He has fallen right back into child- 
hood, a time when we are still a long way from wholeness. 
Wholeness is represented by the family, and its components 
are still projected upon the members of the family and 
personified by them. But this state is dangerous for the 
adult because regressive: it denotes a splitting of person- 
ality which primitive man experiences as the perilous "loss 
of soul." In the break-up the personal components that have 
been integrated with such pains are once more sucked into 
the outside world. The individual loses his guilt and ex- 
changes it for infantile innocence; once more he can blame 
the wicked father for this and the unloving mother for 
that, and all the time he is caught in this inescapable causal 
nexus like a fly in a spider's web, without noticing that he 
has lost his moral freedom. 77 But no matter how much 

78 Jung, "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" {Collected Works, 
Vol. 13), pars. 2091T. 

"Mcistcr Eckhart says: " 4 I came not upon caiih to bring peace but 
a sword; to cut away all things, to part thee from broihcr, child, 
mother and friend, which arc really thy foes.' For verily thy comfort* 
arc thy foes. Doth eye sec all things and thine car hear all 
things and thy heart remember them all, then in these thing"* thy 
soul is destroyed." — Eckhait, op. cil., Vol. I, pp. 12-13. 

374 • Psychology and Alchemy 

parents and grandparents may have sinned against the 
child, the man who is really adult will accept these sins as 
his own condition which has to be reckoned with. Only 
a fool is interested in other people's guilt, since he cannot 
alter it. The wise man learns only from his own guilt. He 
will ask himself: Who am I that all this should happen 
to me? To find the answer to this fateful question he will 
look into his own heart. 

As in the previous dream the vehicle was an airplane, so 
hi this it is a tram. The type of vehicle in a dream illustrates 
the kind of movement or the manner in which the dreamer 
moves forward in time — in other words, how he lives his 
psychic life, whether individually or collectively, whether 
on his own or on borrowed means, whether spontaneously 
or mechanically. In the airplane he is flown by an un- 
known pilot; i.e., he is borne along on intuitions emanating 
from the unconscious. (The mistake is that the "mirror" is 
used too much to steer by.) But in this dream he is in a 
collective vehicle, a tram, which anybody can ride in; i.e., 
he moves or behaves just like everybody else. All the same 
he is again one of four, which means that he is in both 
vehicles on account of his unconscious striving for whole- 

13. Dream: 

In the sea there lies a treasure. To reach it, he has to 
dive through a narrow opening. This is dangerous, but 
down below he will find a companion. The dreamer takes 
the plunge into the dark and discovers a beautiful garden 
in the depths, symmetrically laid out, with a fountain in the 

The "treasure hard to attain" lies hidden in the ocean of 
the unconscious, and only the brave can reach it. I con- 
jecture that the treasure is also the "companion," the one 
who goes through life at our side — in all probability a close 
analogy to the lonely ego who finds a mate in the self, for 
at first the self is the strange non-ego. This is the theme of 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 27 S 

the magical travelling companion, of whom I will give three 
famous examples: the disciples on the road to Emmaus, 
Krishna and Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita, Moses and 
El-Khidr in Sura 18 of the Koran. 78 1 conjecture further 
that the treasure in the sea, the companion, and the garden 
with the fountain are all one and the same thing: the self. 
For the garden is another temenos, and the fountain is the 
source of "living water" mentioned in John 7 : 38, which 
the Moses of the Koran also sought and found, and beside 
it El-Khidr, 79 "one of Our servants whom We had endowed 
with Our grace and wisdom" (Sura 18). And the legend 
has it that the ground round about El-Khidr blossomed 
with spring flowers, although it was desert. In Islam, the 
plan of the temenos with the fountain developed under 
the influence of early Christian architecture into the court 
of the mosque with the ritual wash-house in the centre 
(e.g., Ahmed ibn-Tulun in Cairo). We see much the same 
thing in our Western cloisters with the fountain in the 
garden. This is also the "rose garden of the philosophers," 
which we know from the treatises on alchemy and from 
many beautiful engravings. "The Dweller in the House" 
(cf. commentary to dream 10) is the "companion." The 
centre and the circle, here represented by fountain and 
garden, are analogues of the lapis, which is among other 
things a living being. In the Rosarium the lapis says: 
"Protege me, protegam te. Largire mihi ius meum, ut te 
adiuvem" (Protect me and I will protect you. Give me my 
due that I may help you). 80 Here the lapis is nothing less 
than a good friend and helper who helps those that help 
him, and this points to a compensatory relationship. (I 

79 Cf. Jung, "Concerning Rebirth" (Collected Works, Vol. 9.1), PP. 


79 Karl Vollers, "Chidher," Archiv fiir Religions Wissenschaft (Leip- 
zig), Xll (1909), 235. 

m Art. aurif., II, p. 239. This is a Hermes quotation from ihc "Tracta- 
tus aureus," but in the edition of 1566 (Ars chemuu) it runs: 
"Largiri vis mihi meum ut adiuvem te" (You want to give mc freely 
what is mine, that 1 may help you). 

37$ •* Psychology and Alchemy 

would call to mind what was said in the commentary to 
dream 10, more particularly the Monogenes-Zap/.s-self par- 

The crash to earth thus leads into the depths of the sea, 
into the unconscious, and the dreamer reaches the shelter 
of the temenos as a protection against the splintering of 
personality caused by his regression to childhood. The 
situation is rather like that of dream 4 and vision 5 in the 
first series, where the magic circle warded off the lure of 
the unconscious and its plurality of female forms. (The 
dangers of temptation approach Poliphilo in much the same 
way at the beginning of his nekyia.) 

The source of life is, like El-Khidr, a good companion, 
though it is not without its dangers, as Moses of old found 
to his cost, according to the Koran. It is the symbol of the 
life force that eternally renews itself and of the clock that 
never runs down. An uncanonical saying of our Lord runs: 
"He who is near unto me is near unto the fire." 81 Just 
as this esoteric Christ is a source of fire — probably not 
without reference to the irvp ad t.Coov of Heraclitus — so the 
alchemical philosophers conceive their aqua nostra to be 
ignis (fire). 82 The source means not only the flow of life 
but its warmth, indeed its heat, the secret of passion, whose 
synonyms are always fiery. 83 The all-dissolving aqua nostra 
is an essential ingredient in the production of the lapis. 

81 A quotation from Arislolle in the Rosarium, Art. aurif., II, p. 317, 
says: "Elige tibi pro lapide, per quern regcs venerantur in Diadema- 
libus suis . . . quia ille est propinquus igni" (Choose for your stone 
that through which kings are venerated in their crowns . . . because 
that [stone] is near to the fire). 

82 Cf. the treatise of Komarios, in which Cleopatra explains the 
meaning of the water (Berthelot, Collection des anciens alchimistes 
grecs, IV, xx). 

M Rosarium, Art. aurif., II, p. 378: "Lapis noster hie est ignis ex igne 
creatus et in ignem verlitur, et anima eius in igne moratur" (This 
our stone is fire, created of fire, and turns into fire; its soul dwells 
in fire). This may have been based on the following: "Item lapis 
nosier, hoc est ignis ampulla, ex igne creatus est, et in cum vertitur" 
(Likewise this our stone, i.e., the flask of fire, is created out of fire 
and turns back into it). — "Allegoriae sapientum," Bibl. chem. curiosa, 
I, p. 468a. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : ^77 

But the source is underground and therefore the way leads 
underneath: only down below can we find the fiery source 
of life. These depths constitute the natural history of man, 
his causal link with the world of instinct. Unless this link 
be rediscovered no lapis and no self can come into being. 

14. Dream: 

The dreamer goes into a chemist's shop with his father. 
Valuable things can be got there quite cheap, above all a 
special water. His father tells him about the country the 
water comes from. Afterwards he crosses the Rubicon by 

The traditional apothecary's shop, with its carboys and 
gallipots, its waters, its lapis divinus and infcrnalis and its 
magisteries, is the last visible remnant of the kitchen para- 
phernalia of those alchemists who saw in the donum spiritus 
sancti — the precious gift — nothing beyond the chimera of 
goldmaking. The "special water" is literally the aqua nostra 
non vulgi. 8 * It is easy to understand why it is his father 
who leads the dreamer to the source of life, since he is 
the natural source of the latter's life. We could say that 
the father represents the country or soil from which that 
life sprang. But figuratively speaking, he is the "informing 
spirit" who initiates the dreamer into the meaning of life 
and explains its secrets according to the teachings of old. 
He is a transmitter of the traditional wisdom. But nowadays 
the fatherly pedagogue fulfils this function only in the 
dreams of his son, where he appears as the archetypal 
father figure, the "wise old man." 

84 Aqua nostra is also called aqua pcrmanens, corresponding to the 
C5u>p dilov of Ihe Greeks: "aqua pcrmanens, ex qua quidem aqua 
lapis nostcr preiiosissimus gencratur," wc read in ihe "Tuiba philoso- 
phorum," Art is auriferae, Vol. I, p. 14- "Lapis cnim est hacc ipsa 
pcrmanens aqua ct dum aqua esl, lapis non est" (For the Hon 
this selfsame permanent water; and while it is water it is ru.»t the 
stone). — Ibid., p. 16. The commonness of the "water" is \ci> often 
emphasized, as fci instance in ibid., p. 30. "Quod quaenmu 
minimo prelio vcnditur, et si nosccrctur, nc tantillum v 
mcrcatorcs" (What we arc seeking is sold publicly for a \cr» small 
price, and if it were recognized, the merchants would not sell it for 
so little). 

jy8 : Psychology and Alchemy 

The water of life is easily had: everybody possesses it, 
though without knowing its value. "Spernitur a stultis" — it 
is despised by the stupid, because they assume that every 
good thing is always outside and somewhere else, and that 
the source in their own souls is a "nothing but." Like the 
lapis, it is "pretio quoque vilis," of little price, and there- 
fore, like the jewel in Spitteler's Prometheus, it is rejected 
by everyone from the high priest and the academicians 
down to the very peasants, and "in viam eiectus," flung out 
into the street, where Ahasuerus picks it up and puts it 
into his pocket. The treasure has sunk down again into the 

But the dreamer has noticed something and with vigorous 
determination crosses the Rubicon. He has realized that 
the flux and fire of life are not to be underrated and are 
absolutely necessary for the achievement of wholeness. But 
there is no recrossing the Rubicon. 

15. Dream: 

Four people are going down a river: the dreamer, his 
father, a certain friend, and the unknown woman. 

In so far as the "friend" is a definite person well known 
to the dreamer, he belongs, like the father, to the conscious 
world of the ego. Hence something very important has 
happened: in dream 11 the unconscious was three against 
one, but now the situation is reversed and it is the dreamer 
who is three against one (the latter being the unknown 
woman). The unconscious has been depotentiated. The 
reason for this is that by "taking the plunge" the dreamer 
has connected the upper and the lower regions — that is to 
say, he has decided not to live only as a bodiless abstract 
being but to accept the body and the world of instinct, 
the reality of the problems posed by love and life, and to 
act accordingly. 85 This was the Rubicon that was crossed. 

M The alchemists give only obscure hints on this subject, e.g., the 
quotation from Aristotle in Rosarium (Art. aurif., II, p. 318): "Fili, 
accipere debes de pinguiori carne" (Son, you must take of the fatter 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 379 

Individuation, becoming a self, is not only a spiritual 
problem, it is the problem of all life. 

16. Dream: 

Many people are present. They are all walking to the left 
around a square. The dreamer is not in the centre but to 
one side. They say that a gibbon is to be reconstructed. 

Here the square appears for the first time. Presumably it 
arises from the circle with the help of the four people. 
(This will be confirmed later.) Like the lapis, the tinctura 
rubea, and the aurum philosophicum, the squaring of the 
circle was a problem that greatly exercised medieval minds. 
It is a symbol of the opus alchymicum, since it breaks down 
the original chaotic unity into the four elements and then 
combines them again in a higher unity. Unity is represented 
by a circle and the four elements by a square. The produc- 
tion of one from four is the result of a process of distillation 
and sublimation which takes the so-called "circular' 1 form: 
the distillate is subjected to sundry distillations*' 5 so that the 
"soul" or "spirit" shall be extracted in its purest state. The 
product is generally called the tk quintesscnce, ,, though this 
is by no means the only name for the ever-hoped-for and 
never-to-be-discovcrcd "One." It has, as the alchemists say, 
a "thousand names," like the prima materia. Heinrich 
Khunrath has this to say about the circular distillation: 
•Through Circumrotation or a Circular Philosophical re- 
volving of the Quaternarius, it is brought back to the high- 
est and purest Simplicity of the plusquamperfect Catholic 
Monad. . . . Out of the gross and impure One there 
cometh an exceeding pure and subtile One," and so forth. 87 

flesh). And in the "Tractatus aureus;' Chap. IV, we read "Homo a 
principio naturae gcncratur, cuius viscera e.wnca sunt" (Man is gen- 
erated from the principle of Nature whu*c inward parts arc fleshs ) 
*°Cf. "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" (Coilecittt Works, 
Vol. 13), pars. i8sfT. 

* T Heinrich Conrad Khunrath, Von hylealUchen, ila\ i\t, pninatciuil- 
ischen catholischcn, oder allgemcinem tiatmluhcn Lliaos (Magde- 
burg, I597)i P 204. 

380 : Psychology and Alchemy 

Soul and spirit must be separated from the body, and this 
is equivalent to death: "Therefore Paul of Tarsus saith, 
Cupio dissolvi, et esse cum Christo. 88 Therefore, my dear 
Philosopher, must thou catch the Spirit and Soul of the 
Magnesia." 89 The spirit (or spirit and soul) is the temarius 
or number three which must first be separated from its 
body and, after the purification of the latter, infused back 
into it. 90 Evidently the body is the fourth. Hence Khunrath 
refers to a passage from Pseudo-Aristotle, 91 where the 
circle re-emerges from a triangle set in a square. 92 This 
circular figure, together with the Uroboros — the dragon 
devouring itself tail first — is the basic mandala of alchemy. 
The Eastern and more particularly the Lamaic mandala 
usually contains a square ground-plan of the stupa. We 
can see from the mandalas constructed in solid form that 
it is really the plan of a building. The square also conveys 
the idea of a house or temple, or of an inner walled-in 

Rs ". . . having a desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ" (Phil. 
(D.V.) 1 : 23). 

80 The "magnesia" of the alchemists has nothing to do with magnesia 
(MgO). In Khunrath (ibid., p. 161) it is the "materia coelestis et 
divina," i.e., the "materia lapidis Philosophorum," the arcane or 
transforming substance. 
00 Ibid., p. 203. 
91 Ibid., p. 207. 

02 There is a figurative representation of this idea in Michael Maier, 
Scrutinium chymicum (Frankfurt am Main, 1687), Emblema XXI. 
But Maier interprets the temarius differently. He says (p. 63): 
"Similiter volunt Philosophi quadrangulum in triangulum ducen- 
dum esse, hoc est, in corpus, spiritum et animam, quae tria in trinis 
coloribus ante rubedinem praeviis apparent, utpote corpus seu terra in 
Saturni nigredine, spiritus in lunari albedine, tanquam aqua, anima 
sive aer in solari citrinitate. Turn triangulus perfectus erit, sed hie 
vicissim in circulum mutari debet, hoc est in rubedinem invaria- 
bilem." (Similarly the philosophers maintain that the quadrangle is 
to be reduced to a triangle, that is, to body, spirit, and soul. These 
three appear in three colours which precede the redness: the body, 
or earth, in Saturnine blackness; the spirit in lunar whiteness, like 
water; and the soul, or air, in solar yellow. Then the triangle will be 
perfect, but in its turn it must change into a circle, that is into 
unchangeable redness.) Here the fourth is fire, and an everlasting 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 381 

space™ (cf. below). According to the ritual, stupas must 
always be circumambulated to the right, because a leftward 
movement is evil. The left, the "sinister" side, is the uncon- 
scious side. Therefore a leftward movement is equivalent to 
a movement in the direction of the unconscious, whereas 
a movement to the right is "correct" and aims at conscious- 
ness. In the East these unconscious contents have gradually, 
through long practice, come to assume definite forms which 
have to be accepted as such and retained by the conscious 
mind. Yoga, so far as we know it as an established practice, 
proceeds in much the same way: it impresses fixed forms 
on consciousness, its most important Western parallel is 
the Exercitia spiritualia of Ignatius Loyola, which likewise 
impress fixed concepts about salvation on the psyche. This 
procedure is "right" so long as the symbol is still a valid 
expression of the unconscious situation. The psychological 
Tightness of both Eastern and Western yoga ceases oniy 
when the unconscious process — which anticipates future 
modifications of consciousness — has developed so far that 
it produces shades of meaning which are no longer ade- 
quately expressed by, or are at variance with, the traditional 
symbol. Then and only then can one say that the symbol 
has lost its "rightness." Such a process signifies a gradual 
shift in man's unconscious view of the world over the 
centuries and has nothing whatever to do with intellectual 
criticisms of this view. Religious symbols are phenomena 
of life, plain facts and not intellectual opinions. If the 
Church clung for so long to the idea that the sun rotates 
round the earth, and then abandoned this contention in the 
nineteenth century, she can always appeal to the psycholog- 
ical truth that for millions of people the sun did revolve 
round the earth and that it was only in the nineteenth cen- 
tury that any major portion of mankind became sufficiently 

" l Cf. "city" and "castle" in commentary to dream 10 The alchemists 
similarly understand the rotuiulum arising out of the square as the 
oppidum (city). See Acgidius dc Vadis, "Dialogus inter naturam ct 
filium Philosophiae," Theatrum chemkum, Vol. 2, p. 115. 

382 : Psychology and Alchemy 

sure of the intellectual function to grasp the proofs of the 
earth's planetary nature. Unfortunately there is no "truth" 
unless there are people to understand it. 

Presumably the leftward circumambulation of the square 
indicates that the squaring of the circle is a stage on the 
way to the unconscious, a point of transition leading to a 
goal lying as yet unformulated beyond it. It is one of those 
paths to the centre of the non-ego which were also trodden 
by the medieval investigators when producing the lapis. 
The Rosarium says: 94 "Out of man and woman make a 
round circle and extract the quadrangle from this and from 
the quadrangle the triangle. Make a round circle and you 
will have the philosophers' stone." 95 

94 A quotation attributed to Pseudo-Aristotle ("Tractatus Aristotelis," 
Theatr. chem., V, pp. 88off.), but not traceable. 

95 In the Tractatus aureus . . . cum Scholiis Dominici Gnosii (1610), 
p. 43, there is a drawing of the "secret square of the sages." In the 
centre of the square is a circle surrounded by rays of light. The 
scholium gives the following explanation: "Divide lapidem tuum in 
quatuor elementa . . . et coniunge in unum et totum habebis magis- 
terium" (Reduce your stone to the four elements . . . and unite 
them into one and you will have the whole magistery) — a quotation 
from Pseudo-Aristotle. The circle in the centre is called "mediator, 
pacem faciens inter inimicos sive elementa imo hie solus . efficit 
quadraturam circuli" (the mediator, making peace between enemies, 
or [the four] elements; nay rather he alone effects the squaring of 
the circle). — Ibid., p. 44. The circumambulation has its parallel in 
the "circulatio spirituum sive distillatio circularis, hoc est exterius 
intro, interius foras: item inferius et superius, simul in uno circulo 
conveniant, neque amplius cognoscas, quid vel exterius, vel interius, 
inferius vel superius fuerit: sed omnia sint unum in uno circulo sive 
vase. Hoc enim vas est Pelecanus verus Philosophicus, nee alius est in 
toto mundo quaerendus." (. . . circulation of spirits or circular distil- 
lation, that is, the outside to the inside, the inside to the outside, like- 
wise the lower and the upper; and when they meet together in one 

circle, you could no longer recognize what 
was outside or inside, or lower or upper; but 
all would be one thing in one circle or 
vessel. For this vessel is the true philosophical 
Pelican, and there is no other to be sought 
for in all the world.) This process is eluci- 
dated by the accompanying drawing. The 
little circle is the "inside," and the circle 
divided into four is the "outside": four riv- 
ers flowing in and out of the inner "ocean." 
— Ibid., pp. 262f. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 383 

The modern intellect naturally regards all this as poppy- 
cock. But this estimate fails to get rid of the fact that such 
concatenations of ideas do exist and that they even played 
an important part for many centuries. It is up to psychology 
to understand these things, leaving the layman to rant about 
poppycock and obscurantism. Many of my critics who call 
themselves "scientific" behave exactly like the bishop who 
excommunicated the cockchafers for their unseemly pro- 

Just as the stupas preserve relics of the Buddha in their 
innermost sanctuary, so in the interior of the Lamaic quad- 
rangle, and again in the Chinese earth-square, there is a 
Holy of Holies with its magical agent, the cosmic source 
of energy, be it the god Shiva, the Buddha, a bodhisattva, 
or a great teacher. In China it is Tien — heaven — with the 
four cosmic effluences radiating from it. And equally in the 
Western mandalas of medieval Christendom the deity is 
enthroned at the centre, often in the form of the triumphant 
Redeemer together with the four symbolical figures of the 
evangelists. The symbol in our dream presents the most 
violent contrast to these highly metaphysical ideas, for it is 
a gibbon, unquestionably an ape, that is to be reconstructed 
in the centre. Here we meet again the ape who first turned 
up in vision 22 of the first series. In that dream he caused 
a panic, but he also brought about the helpful intervention 
of the intellect. Now he is to be "reconstructed," and this 
can only mean that the anthropoid — man as an archaic fact 
— is to be put together again. Clearly the left-hand path 
does not lead upwards to the kingdom of the gods and 
eternal ideas, but down into natural history, into the bestial 
instinctive foundations of human existence. We are there- 
fore dealing, to put it in classical language, with a Dionysian 

The square corresponds to the temenos, where a drama 
is taking place — in this case a play of apes instead of satyrs. 
The inside of the "golden flower" is a "seeding-placc" 
where the "diamond body" is produced. The synonymous 

384 : Psychology* and Alchemy 

term "the ancestral land" 06 may actually be a hint that 
this product is the result of integrating the ancestral stages. 

The ancestral spirits play an important part in primitive 
rites of renewal. The aborigines of central Australia even 
identify themselves with their mythical ancestors of the 
alcheringa period, a sort of Homeric age. Similarly the 
Pueblo Indians of Taos, in preparation for their ritual 
dances, identify with the sun, whose sons they are. This 
atavistic identification with human and animal ancestors 
can be interpreted psychologically as an integration of the 
unconscious, a veritable bath of renewal in the life-source 
where one is once again a fish, unconscious as in sleep, 
intoxication, and death. Hence the sleep of incubation, the 
Dionysian orgy, and the ritual death in initiation. Naturally 
the proceedings always take place in some hallowed spot. 
We can easily translate these ideas into the concretism of 
Freudian theory: the temenos would then be the womb 
of the mother and the rite a regression to incest. But these 
are the neurotic misunderstandings of people who have re- 
mained partly infantile and who do not realize that such 
things have been practised since time immemorial by adults 
whose activities cannot possibly be explained as a mere 
regression to infantilism. Otherwise the highest and most 
important achievements of mankind would ultimately be 
nothing but the perverted wishes of children, and the word 
"childish" would have lost its raison d'etre. 

Since the philosophical side of alchemy was concerned 
with problems that are very closely related to those which 
interest the most modern psychology, it might perhaps be 
worth while to probe a little deeper into the dream motif 
of the ape that is to be reconstructed in the square. In the 
overwhelming majority of cases alchemy identifies its trans- 
forming substance with the argentum vivum or Mercurius. 
Chemically this term denotes quicksilver, but philosophi- 
cally it means the spiritus vitae, or even the world-soul, 
so that Mercurius also takes on the significance of Hermes, 
& Wilhelm and Jung, Secret of the Golden Flower (1962 edn.), p. 22. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : j8$ 

god of revelation. (This question has been discussed in 
detail elsewhere.) 97 Hermes is associated with the idea of 
roundness and also of squareness, as can be seen particularly 
in Papyrus V (line 401) of the Papyri Graecae Magicae** 
where he is named arpoyyvXo^ nal TerpdKojvo^ "round and 
square." He is also called rcrpayAw^iv, "quadrangular." He 
is in general connected with the number four; hence there 
is a 'E/d/it/s Ter/3aAC£(/>aAcr?, a "four-headed Hermes." U9 These 
attributes were known also in the Middle Ages, as the work 
of Cartari, 100 for instance, shows. He says; 

Again, the square figures of Mercury [Hermes], made 
up of nothing but a head and a virile member, signify 
that the Sun is the head of the world, and scatters the 
seed of all things; while the four sides of the square 
figure have the same significance as the four-stringed 
sistrum which was likewise attributed to Mercury, 
namely, the four quarters of the world or the four seasons 
of the year; or again, that the two equinoxes and the two 
soltices make up between them the four parts of the 
whole zodiac. 

It is easy to see why such qualities made Mercurius an 
eminently suitable symbol for the mysterious transforming 
substance of alchemy; for this is round and square, i.e., a 
totality consisting of four parts (four elements). Conse- 
quently the Gnostic quadripartite original man 101 as well 
as Christ Pantokrator is an imago lapidis. Western alchemy 
is mainly of Egyptian origin, so let us first of all turn our 
attention to the Hellenistic figure of Hermes Trismegistus, 
who, while standing sponsor to the medieval Mercurius, 

97 Cf. Jung, "The Spirit Mercurius" (Collected Works, Vol. 13). 

98 Karl Preisendanz, ed., Papyri Graecae Magicae (Leipzig, Berlin, 
1928-31, 2 vols.), Vol. I, p. 195. 

99 Cf. Carl F. H. Bruchmann, Epitheta deorum quae apud poetax 
Graecas leguntur, Ausfiihrliches Lexikon der griechischen und to- 
mische Mythologie, supplement (Leipzig, 1893). sv - 

100 Vinccnzo Cartari, Les Images des dieux des anciens (Lyons, 
1581), p. 403. 

101 "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" (Collected Woikx, Vol. 
13), pars. 168, 2061T. 

386 : Psychology and Alchemy 

derives ultimately from the ancient Egyptian Thoth. The 
attribute of Thoth was the baboon, or again he was 
represented outright as an ape. 102 This idea was visibly pre- 
served all through the numberless editions of the Book of 
the Dead right down to the most recent times. It is true that 
in the existing alchemical texts — which with few exceptions 
belong to the Christian era — the ancient connection between 
Thoth-Hermes and the ape has disappeared, but it still 
existed at the time of the Roman Empire. Mercurius, how- 
ever, had several things in common with the devil — which 
we will not enter upon here — and so the ape once more 
crops up in the vicinity of Mercurius as the simia Dei, It 
is of the essence of the transforming substance to be on 
the one hand extremely common, even contemptible (this 
is expressed in the scries of attributes it shares with the 
devil, such as serpent, dragon, raven, lion, basilisk, and 
eagle), but on the other hand to mean something of great 
value, not to say divine. For the transformation leads from 
the depths to the heights, from the bestially archaic and 
infantile to the mystical homo maximus. 

The symbolism of the rites of renewal, if taken seriously, 
points far beyond the merely archaic and infantile to man's 
innate psychic disposition, which is the result and deposit 
of all ancestral life right down to the animal level — hence 
the ancestor and animal symbolism. The rites are attempts 
to abolish the separation between the conscious mind and 
the unconscious, the real source of life, and to bring about 
a reunion of the individual with the native soil of his in- 
herited, instinctive make-up. Had these rites of renewal 
not yielded definite results they would not only have died 
out in prehistoric times but would never have arisen in 
the first place. The case before us proves that even if the 
conscious mind is miles away from the ancient conceptions 
of the rites of renewal, the unconscious still strives to 
bring them closer in dreams. It is true that without the 
qualities of autonomy and autarky there would be no 
102 E. Wallis Budge, The Gods of the Egyptians, Vol. I, pp. 21, 404. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : jSy 

consciousness at all, yet these qualities also spell the danger 
of isolation and stagnation since, hy splitting olT the un- 
conscious, they bring about an unbearable alienation of 
instinct. Loss of instinct is the source of endless error and 

Finally the fact that the dreamer is "not in the centre but 
to one side" is a striking indication of what will happen 
to his ego: it will no longer be able to claim the central 
place but must presumably be satisfied with the position of 
a satellite, or at least of a planet revolving round the sun. 
Clearly the important place in the centre is reserved for 
the gibbon about to be reconstructed. The gibbon belongs 
to the anthropoids and, on account of its kinship with man, 
is an appropriate symbol for that part of the psyche which 
goes down into the subhuman. Further, we have seen from 
the cynocephalus or dog-headed baboon associated with 
Thoth-Hermes, the highest among the apes known to the 
Egyptians, that its godlike affinities make it an equally 
appropriate symbol for that part of the unconscious which 
transcends the conscious level. The assumption that the 
human psyche possesses layers that lie below consciousness 
is not likely to arouse serious opposition. But that there 
could just as well be layers lying above consciousness 
seems to be a surmise which borders on a crimen lacuie 
majestatis humanae. In my experience the conscious mind 
can claim only a relatively central position and must ac- 
cept the fact that the unconscious psyche transcends and 
as it were surrounds it on all sides. Unconscious contents 
connect it backwards with physiological states on the one 
hand and archetypal data on the other. Hut it is extended 
forwards by intuitions which are determined partly by 
archetypes and partly by subliminal perceptions depending 
on the relativity of time and space in the unconscious. I 
must leave it to the reader, alter thorough considers 
of this dream-scries and the problems it opens up, to form 
his own judgment as to the possibility of such an hy- 

388 : Psychology and Alchemy 

The following dream is given unabridged, in its original 

17. Dream: 

All the houses have something theatrical about them, 
with stage scenery and decorations. The name of Bernard 
Shaw is mentioned. The play is supposed to take place in 
the distant future. There is a notice in English and German 
on one of the sets: 

This is the universal Catholic Church. 

It is the Church of the Lord. 

All those who feel that they are the instruments of the Lord 

may enter. 

Under this is printed in smaller letters: "The Church was 
founded by Jesus and Paul" — like a firm advertising its 
long standing. 

I say to my friend, "Come on, let's have a look at this." 
He replies, "I do not see why a lot of people have to get 
together when they're feeling religious" I answer, "As a 
Protestant you will never understand." A woman nods 
emphatic approval. Then I see a sort of proclamation on 
the wall of the church. It runs: 


When you feel you are under the power of the Lord, 
do not address him directly. The Lord cannot be reached 
by words. We also strongly advise you not to indulge 
in any discussions among yourselves concerning the at- 
tributes of the Lord. It is futile, for everything valuable 
and important is ineffable. 

(Signed) Pope . . . (Name illegible) 

Now we go in. The interior resembles a mosque, more 
particularly the Hagia Sophia: no seats — wonderful effect 
of space; no images, only framed texts decorating the walls 
(like' the Koran texts in the Hagia Sophia). One of the 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 3S9 

texts reads "Do not flatter your benefactor." The woman 
who had agreed with me before bursts into tears and cries, 
"Then there's nothing left!" I reply, "I find it quite right!" 
but she vanishes. At first I stand with a pillar in front of 
me and can see nothing. Then I change my position and 
see a crowd of people. I do not belong to them and stand 
alone. But they are quite distinct, so that I can see their 
faces. They all say in unison, "We confess that we are 
under the power of the Lord. The Kingdom of Heaven is 
within us." They repeat this three times with great solem- 
nity. Then the organ starts to play and they sing a Bach 
fugue with chorale. But the original text is omitted; some- 
times there is only a sort of coloratura singing, then the 
words are repeated: "Everything else is paper" (meaning 
that it does not make a living impression on me). When 
the chorale has faded away the gcmiitlich part of the cere- 
mony begins; it is almost like a students' party. The people 
are all cheerful and equable. We move about, converse, 
and greet one another, and wine (from an episcopal semi- 
nary) is served with other refreshments. The health of the 
Church is drunk and, as if to express everybody's pleasure 
at the increase in membership, a loudspeaker blares out a 
ragtime melody with the refrain, "Charles is also with us 
now." A priest explains to me: "These somewhat trivial 
amusements are officially approved and permitted. We 
must adapt a little to American methods. With a large 
crowd such as we have here this is inevitable. But we differ 
in principle from the American churches by our decidedly 
anti-ascetic tendency." Thereupon I awake with a feeling 
of great relief. 

Unfortunately I must refrain from commenting on this 
dream as a whole 103 and confine myself to our theme. The 
temenos has become a sacred building (in accordance with 
the hint given earlier). The proceedings are thus character- 
ized as "religious." The grotesque-humorous side of the 

lf *H was considered at length in my *T>ychology and Religion" 
{Collected Works, Vol. 11), pp. 24H. 

390 : Psychology and Alchemy 

Dionysian mystery comes out in the so-called gemutlich 
part of the ceremony, where wine is served and a toast 
drunk to the health of the Church. An inscription on the 
floor of an Orphic-Dionysian shrine puts it very aptly: 
ixovov fir) v8wp (Only no water!). 104 The Dionysian relics in 
the Church, such as the fish and wine symbolism, the 
Damascus chalice, the seal-cylinder with the crucifix and 
the inscription OP<I>EOC BAKKIKOC, 105 and much else 
besides, can be mentioned only in passing. 

The "anti-ascetic" tendency clearly marks the point of 
difference from the Christian Church, here defined as 
"American" (cf. commentary to dream 14 of the first 
series). America is the ideal home of the reasonable ideas 
of the practical intellect, which would like to put the 
world to rights by means of a "brain trust." 106 This view 
is in keeping with the modern formula "intellect = spirit," 
but it completely forgets the fact that "spirit" was never a 
human "activity," much less a "function." The movement 
to the left is thus confirmed as a withdrawal from the 
modern world of ideas and a regression to pre-Christian 
Dionysos worship, where "asceticism" in the Christian sense 
is unknown. At the same time the movement does not lead 
right out of the sacred spot but remains within it; in other 
words it does not lose its sacramental character. It does 
not simply fall into chaos and anarchy, it relates the 
Church directly to the Dionysian sanctuary just as the 
historical process did, though from the opposite direction. 

104 Orphic mosaic from Tramithia (Robert Eisler, Orpheus — the 
Fisher [London, 1921], pp. 27 iff.). We can take this inscription as 
a joke without offending against the spirit of the ancient mysteries. 
(Cf. the frescoes in the Villa dei Misteri in Pompeii — Amadeo Mai- 
uri, La Villa dei Misteri [Rome, 1931, 2 vols.] — where the drunken- 
ness and ecstasy are not only closely related but actually one and 
the same thing.) But, since initiations have been connected with 
healing since their earliest days, the advice may possibly be a warning 
against water drinking, for it is well known that the drinking water 
in southern regions is the mother of dysentery and typhoid fever. 
103 Eisler, Orpheus— the Fisher, Plate XXXI. 
106 This is roughly the opinion of the dreamer. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 391 

We could say that this regressive development faithfully 
retreads the path of history in order to reach the pre- 
Christian level. Hence it is not a relapse but a kind of 
systematic descent ad inferos, a psychological nekyia. 

I encountered something very similar in the dream of a 
clergyman who had a rather problematical attitude to his 
faith: Coming into his church at night , he found that the 
whole wall of the choir had collapsed. The altar and ruins 
were overgrown with vines hanging full of grapes, and the 
moon was shining in through the gap. 

Again, a man who was much occupied with religious 
problems had the following dream: An immense Gothic 
cathedral, almost completely dark. High Mass is being 
celebrated. Suddenly the whole wall of the aisle collapses. 
Blinding sunlight bursts into the interior together with a 
large herd of bulls and cows. This setting is evidently more 
Mithraic, but Mithras is associated with the early Church 
in much the same way Dionysos is. 

Interestingly enough, the church in our dream is a syn- 
cretistic building, for the Hagia Sophia is a very ancient 
Christian church which, however, served as a mosque un- 
til quite recently. It therefore fits in very well with the 
purpose of the dream: to attempt a combination of Chris- 
tian and Dionysian religious ideas. Evidently this is to 
come about without the one excluding the other, without 
any values being destroyed. This is extremely important, 
since the reconstruction of the "gibbon" is to t>ke place in 
the sacred precincts. Such a sacrilege might easily lead to 
the dangerous supposition that the leftward movement is 
a diabolica fraus and the gibbon the devil — for the devil 
is in fact regarded as the "ape of God." The leftward 
movement would then be a perversion of divine truth for 
the purpose of setting up "His Black Majesty" in place of 
God. But the unconscious has no such blasphemous inten- 
tions; it is only trying to restore the lost Dionysos who is 
somehow lacking in modern man (pace Nietzsche!) to the 
world of religion. At the end of vision 22, where the ape 

392 : Psychology and Alchemy 

first appears, it was said that "everything must be ruled 
by the light," and everything, we might add, includes the 
Lord of Darkness with his horns and cloven hoof — actually 
a Dionysian corybant who has rather unexpectedly risen 
to the rank of Prince. 

The Dionysian element has to do with emotions and 
affects which have found no suitable religious outlets in 
the predominantly Apollonian cult and ethos of Chris- 
tianity. The medieval carnivals and jeux dc paume in the 
Church were abolished relatively early; consequently the 
carnival became secularized and with it divine intoxication 
vanished from the sacred precincts. Mourning, earnestness, 
severity, and well-tempered spiritual joy remained. But in- 
toxication, that most direct and dangerous form of posses- 
sion, turned away from the gods and enveloped the human 
world with its exuberance and pathos. The pagan religions 
met this danger by giving drunken ecstasy a place within 
their cult. Heraclitus doubtless saw what was at the back 
of it when he said, "But Hades is that same Dionysos in 
whose honour they go mad and keep the feast of the wine- 
vat." For this very reason orgies were granted religious 
license, so as to exorcise the danger that threatened from 
Hades. Our solution, however, has served to throw the 
gates of hell wide open. 

18. Dream: 

A square space with complicated ceremonies going on 
in it, the purpose of which is to transform animals into 
men. Two snakes, moving in opposite directions, have to 
be got rid of at once. Some animals are there, e.g., foxes 
and dogs. The people walk round the square and must let 
themselves be bitten in the calf by these animals at each of 
the four corners. If they run away all is lost. Now the 
higher animals come on the scene — bulls and ibexes. Four 
snakes glide into the four corners. Then the congregation 
files out. Two sacrificial piiests carry in a huge reptile and 
with this they touch the forehead of a shapeless animal 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 393 

lump or life-mass. Out of it there instantly rises a human 
head, transfigured. A voice proclaims: "These are attempts 
at being." 

One might almost say that the dream goes on with the 
"explanation" of what is happening in the square space. 
Animals are to be changed into men; a "shapeless life- 
mass" is to be turned into a transfigured (illuminated) 
human head by magic contact with a reptile. The animal 
lump or life-mass stands for the mass of the inherited un- 
conscious which is to be united with consciousness. This 
is brought about by the ceremonial use of a reptile, presum- 
ably a snake. The idea of transformation and renewal by 
means of a serpent is a well-substantiated archetype. It is 
the healing serpent, representing the god. It is reported of 
the mysteries of Sabazius: "Aureus coluber in sinum de- 
mittitur consecratis et eximitur rursus ab inferioribus parti- 
bus atque imis" (A golden snake is let down into the lap 
of the initiated and taken away again from the lower 
parts). 107 Among the Ophites, Christ was the serpent. 
Probably the most significant development of serpent sym- 
bolism as regards renewal of personality is to be found in 
Kundalini yoga. 108 The shepherd's experience with the 
snake in Nietzsche's Zarathustra would accordingly be a 
fatal omen (and not the only one of its kind — cf. the 
prophecy at the death of the rope-dancer). 

The "shapeless life-mass" immediately recalls the ideas 
of the alchemical "chaos," lo9 the massa or materia in- 
formis or confusa which has contained the divine seeds of 
life ever since the Creation. According to a midrashic view, 
Adam was created in much the same way: in the first hour 

"^Arnobius, Adversus gentes, V, 21 (Mignc, Pairologiae ...» 
Laiin series [Paris, 1844-64, 221 vols.], Vol. 5, col. 1125). For sim- 
ilar practices during the Middle Ages, cf. Joseph Hammcr-PurgMall, 
Memoiie sur deux coflrets gnostiques du moyen fige (Paris, 1835). 
lui Avalon, The Serpent Power; Sir John George WoodrolTc, Shakti 
and Shakta (Madras, 1920). 

,,w The alchemists refer lo Lactanlius, Opera, I, p. 14. 20: "a chao, 
quod est rudis inordinatacquc mater iac confusa congeries" (from the 
chaos, which is a confused assortment of ciudc disordered matter ). 

394 ' Psychology and Alchemy 

God collected the dust, in the second made a shapeless 
mass out of it, in the third fashioned the limbs, and so 

But if the life-mass is to be transformed a circumam- 
bulatio is necessary, i.e., exclusive concentration on the 
centre, the place of creative change. During this process 
one is "bitten" by animals; in other words, we have to 
expose ourselves to the animal impulses of the unconscious 
without identifying with them and without "running away"; 
for flight from the unconscious would defeat the purpose 
of the whole proceeding. We must hold our ground, which 
means here that the process initiated by the dreamer's self- 
observation must be experienced in all its ramifications 
and then articulated with consciousness to the best of his 
understanding. This often entails an almost unbearable ten- 
sion because of the utter incommensurability between con- 
scious life and the unconscious process, which can be ex- 
perienced only in the innermost soul and cannot touch the 
visible surface of life at any point. The principle of con- 
scious life is: "Nihil est in intellectu, quod non prius fuerit 
in sensu." But the principle of the unconscious is the au- 
tonomy of the psyche itself, reflecting in the play of its 
images not the world but itself, even though it utilizes the 
illustrative possibilities offered by the sensible world in 
order to make its images clear. The sensory datum, how- 
ever, is not the causa efficiens of this; rather, it is au- 
tonomously selected and exploited by the psyche, with the 
result that the rationality of the cosmos is constantly being 
violated in the most distressing manner. But the sensible 
world has an equally devastating effect on the deeper 
psychic processes when it breaks into them as a causa 
efficiens. If reason is not to be outraged on the one hand 
and the creative play of images not violently suppressed 
on the other, a circumspect and farsighted synthetic pro- 
cedure is required in order to accomplish the paradoxical 

110 J. Dreyfuss, Adam und Eva nach der Auffassung des Midrasch 
(Strassburg, 1894), quoted by Reitzenstein, Poimandres, p. 258. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 295 

union of irreconcilables. Hence the alchemical parallels in 
our dreams. 

The focusing of attention on the centre demanded in 
this dream and the warning about "running away" have 
clear parallels in the opus akhymicum: the need to con- 
centrate on the work and to meditate upon it is stressed 
again and again. The tendency to run away, however, is 
attributed not to the operator but to the transforming sub- 
stance. Mercurius is evasive and is labelled servus (servant) 
or cervus fugitivus (fugitive stag). The vessel must be well 
sealed so that what is within may not escape. Eirenaeus 
Philalethes 111 says of this servus: "You must be very wary 
how you lead him, for if he can find an opportunity he 
will give you the slip, and leave you to a world of mis- 
fortune." n2 It did not occur to these philosophers that 
they were chasing a projection, and that the more they 
attributed to the substance the further away they were 
getting from the psychological source of their expectations. 
From the difference between the material in this dream 
and its medieval predecessors we can measure the psy- 
chological advance: the running away is now clearly ap- 
parent as a characteristic of the dreamer, i.e., it is no 
longer projected into the unknown substance. Running 
away thus becomes a moral question. This aspect was 
recognized by the alchemists in so far as they emphasized 
the need for a special religious devotion at their work, 
though one cannot altogether clear them of the suspicion 
of having used their prayers and pious exercises for the 
purpose of forcing a miracle — there are even some who 
aspired to have the Holy Ghost as their familiar! 113 But, 
to do them justice, one should not overlook the fact that 

111 Pseudonymous author ("peaceable lover of truth") who lived in 

England at the beginning of the 17th century. 

"-Eirenaeus Philalethes, Ripley Re\i\'d; or An Exposition upon 

Sir George Ripley's ffermetico-Poencal Work. . . . (London, 1678), 

p. 100. 

113 [Cf. Mysterhtm Coniunctionis (Collected Works, Vol. 14). P- 

288, n. 116.— Editors of The Collected Works.) 

jp5 : Psychology and Alchemy 

there is more than a little evidence in the literature that 
they realized it was a matter of their own transformation. 
For instance, Gerhard Dorn exclaims, "Transmutemini in 
vivos lapides philosophicos!" (Transform yourselves into 
living philosophical stones!) 

Hardly have conscious and unconscious touched when 
they fly asunder on account of their mutual antagonism. 
Hence, right at the beginning of the dream, the snakes that 
are making off in opposite directions have to be removed; 
i.e., the conflict between conscious and unconscious is at 
once resolutely stopped and the conscious mind is forced 
to stand the tension by means of the circumambulatio. 
The magic circle thus traced will also prevent the uncon- 
scious from breaking out again, for such an eruption 
would be equivalent to psychosis. "Nonnulli perierunt in 
opere nostro": "Not a few have perished in our work," we 
can say with the author of the Rosarium. The dream 
shows that the difficult operation of thinking in paradoxes 
— a feat possible only to the superior intellect — has suc- 
ceeded. The snakes no longer run away but settle them- 
selves in the four corners, and the process of transforma- 
tion or integration sets to work. The "transfiguration" and 
illumination, the conscious recognition of the centre, has 
been attained, or at least anticipated, in the dream. This 
potential achievement — if it can be maintained, i.e., if the 
conscious mind does not lose touch with the centre again 114 
— means a renewal of personality. Since it is a subjective 
state whose reality cannot be validated by any external 
criterion, any further attempt to describe and explain it is 
doomed to failure, for only those who have had this ex- 
perience are in a position to understand and attest its 
reality. "Happiness," for example, is such a noteworthy 
reality that there is nobody who does not long for it, and 

114 Cf. the commentary to dream 10, second series: "And, being 
chained to the arms and breast of my mother, and to her substance, 
I cause my substance to hold together and rest." ("Tractatus aureus," 
Chap. IV.) 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 39J 

yet there is not a single objective criterion which would 
prove beyond all doubt that this condition necessarily ex- 
ists. As so often with the most important things, we have 
to make do with a subjective judgment. 

The arrangement of the snakes in the four corners is 
indicative of an order in the unconscious. It is as if we 
were confronted with a pre-existent ground plan, a kind of 
Pythagorean tetraktys. I have very frequently observed the 
number four in this connection. It probably explains the 
universal incidence and magical significance of the cross 
or of the circle divided into four. In the present case the 
point seems to be to capture and regulate the animal in- 
stincts so as to exorcise the danger of falling into uncon- 
sciousness. This may well be the empirical basis of the 
cross as that which vanquishes the powers of darkness. 

In this dream the unconscious has managed to stage a 
powerful advance by thrusting its contents dangerously 
near to the conscious sphere. The dreamer appears to be 
deeply entangled in the mysterious synthetic ceremony 
and will unfailingly carry a lasting memory of the dream 
into his conscious life. Experience shows that this results 
in a serious conflict for the conscious mind, because it 
is not always either willing or able to put forth the ex- 
traordinary intellectual and moral effort needed to take a 
paradox seriously. Nothing is so jealous as a truth. 

As a glance at the history of the medieval mind will 
show, our whole modern mentality has been moulded by 
Christianity. (This has nothing to do with whether we 
believe the truths of Christianity or not.) Consequently 
the reconstruction of the ape in the sacred precincts as 
proposed by the dream comes as such a shock that the 
majority of people will seek refuge in blank incompre- 
hension. Others will heedlessly ignore the abysmal depths 
of the Dionysian mystery and will welcome the rational 
Darwinian core of the dream as a safeguard against mystic 
exaltation. Only a very few will feel the collision of the 
two worlds and realize what it is all about. Yet the dream 

398 : Psychology and Alchemy 

says plainly enough that in the place where, according to 
tradition, the deity dwells, the ape is to appear. This sub- 
stitution is almost as bad as a Black Mass. 

In Eastern symbolism the square — signifying the earth 
in China, the padma or lotus in India — has the character 
of the yoni: femininity. A man's unconscious is likewise 
feminine and is personified by the anima. 115 The anima 
also stands for the "inferior" function 116 and for that rea- 
son frequently has a shady character; in fact she sometimes 
stands for evil itself. She is as a rule the fourth person 
(cf. dreams 10, n, 15). She is the dark and dreaded 
maternal womb, which is of an essentially ambivalent na- 
ture. The Christian deity is one in three persons. The 
fourth person in the heavenly drama is undoubtedly the 
devil. In the more harmless psychological version he is 
merely the inferior function. On a moral valuation he is a 
man's sin, a function belonging to him and presumably 
masculine. The feminine element in the deity is kept very 
dark, the interpretation of the Holy Ghost as Sophia being 
considered heretical. Hence the Christian metaphysical 
drama, the "Prologue in Heaven," has only masculine ac- 
tors, a point it shares with many of the ancient mysteries. 
But the feminine element must obviously be somewhere — 
so it is presumably to be found in the dark. At any rate 
that is where the ancient Chinese philosophers located it: 
in the yin. 117 Although man and woman unite they never- 

115 The idea of the anima as I define it is by no means a novelty but 
an archetype which we meet in the most diverse places. It was also 
known in alchemy, as the following scholium proves ("Tractatus 
aureus," in BibL chem. curiosa, I, p. 417) : "Quemadmodum in sole 
ambulantis corpus continuo sequitur umbra ... sic hermaphroditus 
noster Adamicus, quamvis in forma masculi appareat semper tamen 
in corpore occultatam Evam sive foeminam suam secum circumfert" 
(As the shadow continually follows the body of one who walks in 
the sun, so our hermaphroditic Adam, though he appears in the 
form of a male, nevertheless always carries about with him Eve, or 
his wife, hidden in his body). 

116 Cf. supra, pp. 266-69. 

117 "Tractatus aureus," Ars chemica, p. 12: "Verum masculus est 
coelum foeminae et foemina terra masculi" (The male is the heaven 
of the female, and the female is the earth of the male). 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 299 

theless represent irreconcilable opposites which, when ac- 
tivated, degenerate into deadly hostility. This primordial 
pair of opposites symbolizes every conceivable pair of op- 
posites that may occur: hot and cold, light and dark, north 
and south, dry and damp, good and bad, conscious and 
unconscious. In the psychology of the functions there are 
two conscious and therefore masculine functions, the dif- 
ferentiated function and its auxiliary, which are repre- 
sented in dreams by, say, father and son, whereas the un- 
conscious functions appear as mother and daughter. Since 
the conflict between the two auxiliary functions is not 
nearly as great as that between the differentiated and the 
inferior function, it is possible for the third function — 
that is, the unconscious auxiliary one — to be raised to 
consciousness and thus made masculine. It will, however, 
bring with it traces of its contamination with the inferior 
function, thus acting as a kind of link with the darkness of 
the unconscious. It was in keeping with this psychological 
fact that the Holy Ghost should be heretically interpreted 
as Sophia, for he was the mediator of birth in the flesh, 
who enabled the deity to shine forth in the darkness of 
the world. No doubt it was this association that caused 
the Holy Ghost to be suspected of femininity, for Mary 
was the dark earth of the field — "ilia terra virgo nondum 
pluviis irrigata" (that virgin earth not yet watered by the 
rains), as Tertullian called her. 118 

The fourth function is contaminated with the uncon- 
scious and, on being made conscious, drags the whole of 
the unconscious with it. We must then come to terms with 
the unconscious and try to bring about a synthesis of op- 
posites. 119 At first a violent conflict breaks out, such as 

m Adversus Judaeos, 13 (Migne, P.L., Vol. 2, col. 655). 
"•Alchemy regarded this synthesis as one of its chief tasks. The 
Turba philosophorum (ed. Ruska, p. 26) says: "Coniungitc ergo 
masculinum servi rubei filium suae odorifcrac uxori ct iuncti artcm 
gignunt" (Join therefore the male son of the red slave to his sweet- 
scented wife, and joined together they will generate the Art). This 
synthesis of opposites was often represented as a brothcr-and-sistcr 
incest, which version undoubtedly goes back to the "Visio Anslci " 

400 : Psychology and Alchemy 

any reasonable man would experience when it became evi- 
dent that he had to swallow a lot of absurd superstitions. 
Everything in him would rise up in revolt and he would 
defend himself desperately against what looked to him like 
murderous nonsense. This situation explains the following 

19. Dream: 

Ferocious war between two peoples. 

This dream depicts the conflict. The conscious mind is 
defending its position and trying to suppress the uncon- 
scious. The first result of this is the expulsion of the fourth 
function, but, since it is contaminated with the third, there 
is a danger of the latter disappearing as well. Things would 
then return to the state that preceded the present one, when 
only two functions were conscious and the other two un- 

20. Dream: 

There are two boys in a cave. A third falls in as if through 
a pipe. 

The cave represents the darkness and seclusion of the 
unconscious; the two boys correspond to the two uncon- 
scious functions. Theoretically the third must be the aux- 
iliary function, which would indicate that the conscious 
mind had become completely absorbed in the differentiated 
function. The odds now stand 1 : 3, greatly in favour of 
the unconscious. We may therefore expect a new advance 
on its part and a return to its former position. The "boys" 
are an allusion to the dwarf motif, of which more later. 

21. Dream: 

A large transparent sphere containing many little spheres. 
A green plant is growing out of the top. 

Art. ami}., I, where the cohabitation of Thabritius and Beya, the chil- 
dren of the Rex marinus, is described (see Jung, Psychology and 
Alchemy [Collected Works, Vol. 12], pars. 434^.). 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 401 

The sphere is a whole that embraces all its contents; 
life which has been brought to a standstill by useless strug- 
gle becomes possible again. In Kundalini yoga the "green 
womb" is a name for Ishvara (Shiva) emerging from his 
latent condition. 

22. Dream: 

The dreamer is in an American hotel. He goes up in the 
lift to about the third or fourth floor. He has to wait there 
with a lot of other people. A friend (an actual person) is 
also there and says that the dreamer should not have kept 
the dark unknown woman waiting so long below, since he 
had put her in his (the dreamer's) charge. The friend now 
gives him an unsealed note for the dark woman, on which 
is written: "Salvation does not come from refusing to take 
part or from running away. Nor does it come from just 
drifting. Salvation comes from complete surrender, with 
one's eyes always turned to the centre." On the margin 
of the note there is a drawing: a wheel or wreath with 
eight spokes. Then a lift-boy appears and says that the 
dreamer's room is on the eighth floor. He goes on up in the 
lift, this time to the seventh or eighth floor. An unknown 
red-haired man, standing there, greets him in a friendly 
way. Then the scene changes. There is said to be a revolu- 
tion in Switzerland: the military party is making propa- 
ganda for "completely throttling the left." The objection 
that the left is weak enough anyway is met by the answer 
that this is just why it ought to be throttled completely. 
Soldiers in old-fashioned uniforms now appear, who all 
resemble the red-haired man. They load their guns with 
ramrods, stand in a circle, and prepare to shoot at the 
centre. But in the end they do not shoot and seem to march 
away. The dreamer wakes up in terror. 

The tendency to re-establish a state of wholeness — al- 
ready indicated in the foregoing dream — once more comes 
up against a consciousness with a totally different orienta- 
tion. It is therefore appropriate that the dream should 

402 : Psychology and Alchemy 

have an American background. The lift is going up, as is 
right and proper when something is coming "up" from the 
"sub-"conscious. What is coming up is the unconscious 
content, namely the mandala characterized by the number 
four. Therefore the lift should rise to the fourth floor; but, 
as the fourth function is taboo, it only rises to "about the 
third or fourth." This happens not to the dreamer alone 
but to many others as well, who must all wait like him 
until the fourth function can be accepted. A good friend 
then calls his attention to the fact that he should not have 
kept the dark woman, i.e., the anima who stands for the 
tabooed function, waiting "below," i.e., in the unconscious, 
which was just the reason why the dreamer himself had 
to wait upstairs with the others. It is in fact not merely 
an individual but a collective problem, for the animation 
of the unconscious which has become so noticeable in re- 
cent times has, as Schiller foresaw, raised questions which 
the nineteenth century never even dreamed of. Nietzsche 
in his Zarathustra decided to reject the "snake" and the 
"ugliest man," thus exposing himself to an heroic cramp 
of consciousness which led, logically enough, to the col- 
lapse foretold in the same book. 

The advice given in the note is as profound as it is to the 
point, so that there is really nothing to add. After it has 
been more or less accepted by the dreamer the ascent can 
be resumed. We must take it that the problem of the fourth 
function was accepted, at least broadly, for the dreamer 
now reaches the seventh or eighth floor, which means that 
the fourth function is no longer represented by a quarter 
but by an eighth, and is apparently reduced by a half. 

Curiously enough, this hesitation before the last step to 
wholeness seems also to play a part in Faust II, where, in 
the Cabiri scene, "resplendent mermaids" come from over 
the water; 120 

120 [Based on the translation by Philip Wayne {Faust, Part II, pp. 
145L). Slight modifications have been necessary to accommodate his 
version to Jung's commentary. — Translator.] 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 403 

Nereids and Bear we, on the waters riding, 
Tritons: That which brings you all glad tiding. 

In Chelone's giant shield 
Gleams a form severe revealed: 
These are gods that we are bringing; 
Hail them, you high anthems singing. 

Sirens: Little in length, 

Mighty in strength! 
Time-honoured gods 
Of shipwreck and floods. 

Nereids and Great Cabiri do we bear, 
Tritons: That our feast be friendly fair: 

Where their sacred powers preside 
Neptune's rage is pacified. 

A "form severe" is brought by "mermaids," feminine fig- 
ures who represent as it were the sea and the waves of the 
unconscious. The word "severe" reminds us of "severe" 
architectural or geometrical forms which illustrate a defi- 
nite idea without any romantic (feeling-toned) trimmings. 
It "gleams" from the shell of a tortoise, 121 which, primitive 
and cold-blooded like the snake, symbolizes the instinctual 
side of the unconscious. The "image" is somehow identical 
with the unseen, creative dwarf-gods, hooded and cloaked 
manikins who are kept hidden in the dark cista, but who 
also appear on the seashore as little figures about a foot 
high, where, as kinsmen of the unconscious, they protect 
navigation, i.e., the venture into darkness and uncertainty. 
In the form of the Dactyls they are also the gods of in- 
vention, small and apparently insignificant like the im- 
pulses of the unconscious but endowed with the same 
mighty power. (El gabir is "the great, the mighty one,") 

121 The tcstudo (tortoise) is an alchemical instrument, a shulK * 
with which the cooking-vessel uas con creel on ihc lire S 
Rhenanus, Solis e puteo emergentti sive dissirtmionis chymott 
libri tres (Frankfurt am Main, 1613), p. 4«- 

404 ' Psychology and Alchemy 

Nereids and 


Three have followed where we led, 
But the fourth refused to call; 
He the rightful seer, he said, 
His to think for one and all. 

A god may count it sport 
To set a god at naught. 
Honour the grace they bring, 
And fear their threatening. 

It is characteristic of Goethe's feeling-toned nature that 
the fourth should be the thinker. If the supreme principle 
is "feeling is all," then thinking has to play an unfavourable 
role and be submerged. Faust I portrays this development. 
Since Goethe acted as his own model, thinking became 
the fourth (taboo) function. Because of its contamination 
with the unconscious it takes on the grotesque form of the 
Cabiri, for the Cabiri, as dwarfs, are chthonic gods and 
misshapen accordingly. ("I call them pot-bellied freaks of 
common clay.") They thus stand in grotesque contrast to 
the heavenly gods and poke fun at them (cf. the "ape of 
God"). The Nereids and Tritons sing: 

Seven there should really be. 

Sirens: Where, then, stay the other three? 

Nereids and That we know not. You had best 
Tritons: On Olympus make your quest. 

There an eighth may yet be sought 
Though none other gave him thought. 
Well inclined to us in grace, 
Not all perfect yet their race. 
Beings there beyond compare, 
Yearning, unexplainable, 
Press with hunger's pang to share 
In the unattainable. 

We learn that there are "really" seven of them; but 
again there is some difficulty with the eighth as there was 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 405 

before with the fourth. Similarly, in contradiction to the 
previous emphasis placed on their lowly origin in the dark, 
it now appears that the Cabiri arc actually to be found on 
Olympus; for they are eternally striving from the depths to 
the heights and are therefore always to be found both 
below and above. The "severe image" is obviously an un- 
conscious content that struggles towards the light. It seeks, 
and itself is, what I have elsewhere called "the treasure 
hard to attain." 122 This hypothesis is immediately con- 

Sirens: Fame is dimmed of ancient time, 
Honour droops in men of old; 
Though they have the Fleece of Gold, 
Ye have the Cabiri. 

The Golden Fleece is the coveted goal of the argosy, the 
perilous quest that is one of the numerous synonyms for 
attaining the unattainable. Thales makes this wise remark 
about it: 

That is indeed what men most seek on earth: 
Tis rust alone that gives the coin its worth! 

The unconscious is always the fly in the ointment, the 
skeleton in the cupboard of perfection, the painful lie given 
to all idealistic pronouncements, the earthlincss that clings 
to our human nature and sadly clouds the crystal clarity 
we long for. In the alchemical view rust, like verdigris, is 
the metal's sickness. But at the same time this leprosy is 
the vera prima materia, the basis for the preparation of the 
philosophical gold. The Rosarium says: 

Our gold is not the common gold. But thou hast inquired 
concerning the greenness [viriditas, presumably verdigris), 
deeming the bronze to be a leprous body on account of 
the greenness it hath upon it. Therefore I say unto thee 

,rJ Jung, Symbols of Transformation (Collected Works, Vol. 5). 
index, s.v. 

406 : Psychology and Alchemy 

that whatever is perfect in the bronze is that greenness 
only, because that greenness is straightway changed by 
our magistery into our most true gold. 123 

The paradoxical remark of Thales that the rust alone 
gives the coin its true value is a kind of alchemical quip, 
which at bottom only says that there is no light without 
shadow and no psychic wholeness without imperfection. 
To round itself out, life calls not for perfection but for 
completeness; and for this the "thorn in the flesh" is 
needed, the suffering of defects without which there is no 
progress and no ascent. 

The problem of three and four, seven and eight, which 
Goethe has tackled here was a great puzzle to alchemy and 
goes back historically to the texts ascribed to Christianos. 124 
In the treatise on the production of the "mythical water" it 
is said: "Therefore the Hebrew prophetess cried without 
restraint, 'One becomes two, two becomes three, and out of 
the third comes the One as the fourth.' " 125 In alchemical 
literature this prophetess is taken to be Maria Prophe- 
tissa, 126 also called the Jewess, sister of Moses, or the Copt, 
and it is not unlikely that she is connected with the Maria 
of Gnostic tradition. Epiphanius testifies to the existence 
of writings by this Maria, namely the "Interrogationes 
magnae" and "Interrogationes parvae," said to describe a 
vision of how Christ, on a mountain, caused a woman to 
come forth from his side and how he mingled himself with 
her. 127 It is probably no accident that the treatise of Maria 

123 Art. aurif., II, p. 220: a quotation from Senior. Viriditas is occa- 
sionally called azoth, which is one of the numerous synonyms for 
the stone. 

124 According to Marcellin Berthelot (Origines de Valchimie [Paris, 
1885], P- 100), the anonymous author called Christianos was a con- 
temporary of Stephanos of Alexandria, and must therefore have lived 
about the beginning of the 7th century. 

123 Berthelot, Alchimistes grecs, VI, v, 6. The almost bestial 
Kpavya£eiv (shriek) points to an ecstatic condition. 

126 A treatise (of Arabic origin?) is ascribed to her under the title 
"Practica Mariae Prophetissae in artem alchemicam," Art. aurif., 
I, pp. 3i9&\ 

127 Panarium, XXVI. Concerning further possible connections with 
Mariamne and with the Mary Magdalene of the Pistis Sophia, cf. 

Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 407 

(see n. 126) deals with the theme of the matrimonium 
alchymicum in a dialogue with the philosopher Aros, 128 
from which comes the saying, often repeated later: "Marry 
gum with gum in true marriage." 129 Originally it was "gum 
arabic," and it is used here as a secret name for the trans- 
forming substance, on account of its adhesive quality. Thus 
Khunrath 130 declares that the "red" gum is the "resin of 
the wise" — a synonym for the transforming substance. This 
substance, as the life force (vis animans), is likened by 
another commentator to the "glue of the world" (glutinum 
mundi), which is the medium between mind and body and 
the union of both. 131 The old treatise "Consilium coniugii" 
explains that the "philosophical man" consists of the "four 
natures of the stone." Of these three are earthy or in the 
earth, but "the fourth nature is the water of the stone, 
namely the viscous gold which is called red gum and with 
which the three earthy natures are tinted." 132 We learn here 
that gum is the critical fourth nature: it is duplex, i.e., 
masculine and fem